


genesis (you don't know what it means to win)

by crossourbridges



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, a gentle slow burn even
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 73,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25713688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossourbridges/pseuds/crossourbridges
Summary: Harry Potter didn’t help the Malfoy’s because he owed them; he did it because it was the right thing to do. He’s not sure why he keeps going back to visit, except that it seems to annoy Draco Malfoy and he loves annoying Draco Malfoy.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 49
Kudos: 424





	1. pt i. (early summer)

**Author's Note:**

> this is a completed fic! i’m finished with it! i’ll be posting it...whenever I want, based on how quickly i read through this and how many times i talk myself out of posting things! it probably won't take that long. i'd like to get it off my chest. so pls do not worry that this will be abandoned as it's all done in a tidy gdoc.
> 
> importantly, i think, is the fact i thought of this fic almost a full year ago which is rly fitting considering my themes here and it makes me laugh! i’m glad it’s done! i had a good time writing it and if you’re thinking “wow that’s a really soft world she’s got going on there” then yes...you be right. this is a hopeful, soft world, although that doesn’t mean that there aren’t some dark things that the characters have to deal with. the softness just felt right to me when i was writing and it felt like what i needed. i think it feels even more apt now so here it is. it’s my gift to me. i hope you enjoy it too! 
> 
> this title partially comes from the song 'never going back again' by fleetwood mac.
> 
> lastly and probably even more importantly, this fic is dedicated to mady, who i will never link this bc it’d bring me great embarrassment, but she was so incredibly supportive and listened to me all the time, even though she doesn’t even ship this and has to put up with my wild swings from I LOVE WRITING to I HATE WRITING. she is the real mvp with a heart of gold and i love her xxxx

Narcissa Malfoy sat across from Harry, her hands clasped loosely in front of her, her long fingers twitching occasionally as if she wanted to fidget. Harry had been unable to stop focusing on it since he’d noticed: the way her hand spasmed every few minutes, as if she wanted to tap her nails against the table or play with the cup in front of her. She never did, always catching herself and quieting the impulse. 

Still, it made Harry feel better. 

The meeting had been requested a few days before, the invitation coming with an owl that had woken Harry up from what Hermione had taken to calling his “depression afternoon nap.” She said it with a twist of her mouth, a laugh that almost crawled out of her but didn’t quite. He had briefly wondered if it was a criticism but ultimately brushed the uncharitable thought away. She called Ron’s naps the same and had excused herself for one more than one.

The owl had been severe, patient but firm, delivering the letter and waiting for the reply even when Harry tried to shoo it. He hadn’t been sure, staring at the short note, whether he wanted to go. The idea of it was so strange and foreign: if someone had told him a meeting with Narcissa Malfoy at _all_ had been in the cards for him a few years prior he would have laughed himself sick. It hadn’t felt as funny when he was staring at the words on paper, thinking about her whispering in his ear, of telling Voldemort that he was dead. 

It was, however, kind of funny when he was sitting across from her in a fancy dining room in Malfoy Manor.

Harry had known that Narcissa had been confined to her home, a house arrest issued as she awaited trial. Her husband and son hadn’t fared as well, remanded into custody and instructed to wait. Harry mostly tried not to think about it: he hadn’t had time to sort out what he felt, or why, or what any of it meant. Instead, he’d bounced among appearances, among families, and into bed, clinging to the occasional afternoon nap. He glanced at Narcissa and wondered if she was taking naps. 

Then, he tuned back in as he saw her expression grow tighter. “Mr Potter – “

“Harry,” Harry interrupted. It was the third time. “Please don’t call me Mr Potter. I really mean it; I’m not just saying it to be polite or anything.”

Narcissa looked at him for a second and then nodded. “Of course. Harry.” She paused for a brief second, as if mulling over how odd she found it. Or Harry hoped that was why, anyway. He wanted to ask, to check if he was alone in it, but was fairly sure he shouldn’t be seeking comfort from Narcissa Malfoy. 

“I asked you here for a reason, Harry.” Narcissa’s back somehow straightened. “I wanted to talk with you about the situation that I find myself in.”

Harry looked at her and nodded, slowly. “Honestly, I figured as much. What is it?”

“Well, Mr – Harry,” Narcissa said, her eyes bright and cold at the same time, “it’s about my son.”

The kitchen was Harry’s favourite room in Hermione’s house — a room that had considered all different kinds of décor, before nudging its way towards farmhouse. There was a large, deep Belfast sink, tea towels decorated with farm animals, a breakfast bar with large stools, and all of it painted a sage green which seemed to soothe every person that walked into it. The Granger’s hadn’t yet returned from Australia – “I’m not sure where they are anymore,” Hermione had said, her face tight enough when she told him that Harry had decided not to push it. Hermione had wanted to come home, though, and Harry had made it his base for the time being.

He liked the kitchen, the hexagonal wine storage, the large flagstones, the heat that sneaked through from the open fire in the living room and the slightly worn, plush armchairs you could see around it. He liked the clean lines and bright colours and the quiet. Hermione seemed to like it too, being surrounded by pictures of her with her family everywhere. The Granger’s had obviously been proud of their daughter: the hallway was covered with photographs of the three of them and, even when she went off to Hogwarts, the pictures continued — this time with holidays and day trips, Hermione beaming with her new teeth. Harry liked to walk past one in particular, the three Granger’s standing in front of King’s Cross on Hermione’s first day. It was the last picture before the kitchen and the one he walked past, a bottle of red wine in his hand, and a smile on his face. 

Hermione was not smiling. She was propped on one of the stools at the breakfast bar, feet swinging beneath her, slippers kicked off and on the floor. The remains of their dinner were in the sink and in front of her were two large slices of chocolate cake. She glanced at Harry, considering, wrapping a strand of hair around her finger and then letting it go over and over until he had taken a seat again and she sighed.

“Harry, you know I don’t want to harp on —” 

“I’ve never thought that about you,” Harry said, opening the wine and starting to pour it into their glasses. “I’ve always thought you wanted to stop talking about a subject before it was battered to within an inch of its life.”

Hermione sighed again but the look she cast him was amused, her brown eyes bright. “Shut up,” she said, kicking lightly at his shin. “ _Anyway_ , as you know, _I don’t want to harp on_ but I just think that you should take a little more time with the decision. Really think it over.” She took a sip of her wine, nose scrunching as she tasted it. “You don’t owe Narcissa Malfoy anything.”

Harry sighed back, half an imitation, half genuine. He took his own sip, tasting the wine and then another. The wine was a new thing, something that came about as a means to feeling more in control. “Let’s be proper grown ups,” they had all said, clustered around the breakfast bar after dinner, leaning into each other and enjoying the silence. That had meant dinner and dessert and wine and an attempt at talking about culture, which usually quickly descended as they all got merrier and bored with pretending. Still, a new thing or not, the wine was sticking around, fashioning itself into a new routine. Harry liked it. He wanted to be able to develop his own routines.

“I know that, Hermione,” he said, gently. “Apart from my life, of course.”

Hermione laughed. “You’re just trying to make me sound bad. You know exactly what I mean.”

“I do.” Harry lifted his glass to his lips and then thought better of it. “I know what you mean. But you know what I mean too. I do owe her.”

“But you shouldn’t have to owe anyone. You’ve done quite enough.” Hermione frowned, leaning forward and reaching for his hand. Her grip was firm and warm, fingers curling around his as she stared at him. It made his chest feel like it was expanding and Harry grinned back at her, folding their fingers together, grabbing her hand in his. 

“No, Harry, I’m serious,” Hermione said, earnest and shining with it. “I just want you to know that. You helped us. Her, me, all of us, and we’re all grateful and you should know that if you don’t want to help Narcissa Malfoy that not one person would think less of you.” 

Her fingers were tight around Harry’s and he focused on that, the pressure of it, as he leaned back on the stool, resting his back against it. “I think I might think a bit less of me,” he admitted, keeping his focus on their clasped hands instead of Hermione’s face. 

She made a noise, though, and he turned his face towards her. He didn’t know what he had expected to see but the firm determination on it startled him. It reminded Harry of all of her best moments and she squeezed his hand again, sitting straight as she said, firm as if settling the matter, “Well, if it’s for you, it’s a different matter altogether. But drink up, because I think I’ll need to get a bit smashed to appreciate it.”

He laughed, his chest expanding further, and Harry took a long swallow of his wine until the glass was completely drained. Hermione followed suit.

By the time the Malfoy’s trials took place, Harry was almost used to the particular new staring he had started to receive. There had always been eyes on him but there was something _else_ to them now, a deference that made the back of his neck itch and which existed even amongst the Wizengamot. When he’d mentioned how uncomfortable this made him to Ginny, almost whispered it into her hair, she’d smiled and touched his neck and said, “You should try to brazen it out.”

Glancing around, Harry tried to square his shoulders and remind himself of her advice. Her voice had been rich, smooth, carelessly casual. He could be rich, smooth, carelessly casual and brazen. He could meet all their eyes and push through the odd gleam. Harry smiled at a few he recognised, tilting his head in acknowledgement at the others. Several smiled, but he could tell from looking at them that they weren’t quite sure what to make of his presence. 

“You want to testify for Narcissa Malfoy?” Perpetua Crank asked, the large floppy hat on her head moving with every word. Harry glanced at it and thought back to what Hermione had told him about her during her long treatise on every Wizengamot member he would need to know.

“Yes, Ms Crank,” he said and she smiled at him. “I believe it’s important for all of us to understand that people can do things — bad things, horrible things — but that doesn’t mean we’re purely that. I think we should be showing that people who stand up and do something because it’s the right thing to do and show that we can be brave should be rewarded for that. And I think that she did that and that she deserves my testimony.”

A buzz went around the assembled gallery. Harry didn’t turn his head but he didn’t feel like he needed to: Hermione shifted behind him, brushing her hand against his back. He wished that Ron was here too, but Ron had taken him aside, voice low and apologetic, and said that he didn’t want to upset his mother any further. Harry understood but he couldn’t help himself from feeling his absence. 

Perpetua made a low humming noise. “Yes, Mr Potter, of course. I suppose — well, I suppose we call forward Harry Potter then.”

Harry stood and made his way to the box. It led him past Narcissa and he made a point of nodding at her. 

He thought it went well. 

Ron was leaning against the wall when they exited the courtroom, his arms folded over his chest and his chin tilted towards the ground. The crowd parted around them, helped no doubt by the fierce glare that Hermione gave anybody who got too close. Harry noticed she didn’t once let go of her wand. 

“Hey,” Ron said, unfolding his arms to reach into his pockets. He pulled out several sandwiches and brandished them about. “I brought you what I would want if I had to sit and talk to stuffy old witches and wizards all day.”

“So a BLT?”

Ron’s grin was huge. “How did you know?”

“I just felt it.” Harry took the sandwich, carefully unwrapping it as they walked down the corridor towards one of the benches in an alcove. Hermione tucked herself into Ron’s side as they sat, quiet for a long minute as everyone started to eat. 

Ron broke the silence, although he did not think to stop eating as he talked. “So how was it? Dad always says they’re a nightmare.”

Harry snorted. “It was fine, I think. I mean, I think they listened to me. You know?”

Hermione leaned forward to make sure Harry could see her roll her eyes. “He’s being modest,” she said, glancing from Harry to Ron. She made sure to stop eating as she talked. “They were listening to every word. I’ve been reading about the current Wizengamot and even Bartleby Whethers was paying attention!” She looked at them significantly. In return, Harry and Ron exchanged their own significant looks, trying and failing not to smile. 

“Hermione, I’ve not a clue who that is,” Ron said finally, after her weighted pause went on a beat too long. 

Hermione sighed. “He’s been on the Wizengamot for at least fifty years. And the amount of times he falls asleep is apparently shocking. I’ve read the paper mentioning it at least two dozen times and I’m not overly looking for it. It’s a wonder he has his job.”

Ron nodded. Harry watched him look at Hermione, the fond light in his eyes, the slightly bemused expression on his face and, over everything, an affection which shone out of him. His chest twisted and he had to look away, look down at his sandwich, at the large bite mark he had left in the bread. He was here, eating a sandwich, with his best friends, knowing that they loved each other and listening to Hermione talk about Wizengamot members with a passion which could warm anyone. It was close enough to normal that he had to fight not to beam, because then he would have had to explain it, and he didn’t know if he had the words for it. He didn’t know if it would make sense to detail all the ways he was glad to be there, even though the bench was hard and uncomfortable to sit on and the bread was a little soggy and he had hated testifying and his shirt was sticking to him with sweat. 

Instead, Harry took another bite of his sandwich and listened to Ron tell Hermione that her new found knowledge of the Wizengamot was frightening. It went on for several minutes, gentle bickering which Harry half listened to as he finished his sandwich and then stole a drink from the bottle of water Ron had brought along. 

It was only then that Ron turned to him, a mostly serious look on his face. “Do you ever wonder why they’re scheduling these two trials for the same day?” 

Harry swallowed. “Yeah,” he said, looking down the corridor. There were plenty of people still milling about but in this setting, on this day, they seemed to have decided to leave them alone. “I think it’s to try and get them away in one fell swoop.”

Hermione made a noise of agreement. “And then they have to have different representatives. They can’t just rely on one.”

“They can afford it,” Ron said, only a hint of bitterness sweeping into his tone.

“Maybe. I don’t know — I read they froze their assets, of course.”

“Oh, did you read that, Hermione?”

“Shut up, Ronald. Anyway, Draco’s trial starts in about twenty minutes and — well Lucius’ has been going on for a few days already.” Hermione pushed a hand through her hair. “We’re not going to that one.”

“Just our old friend Draco’s, then,” Ron said, jostling Harry with his elbow. Harry turned his head and looked at him, raising his eyebrows. Ron raised his right back at him. “You know, our charming old friend, who wanted to kill us, let Death Eater’s into Hogwarts, and one time pretended to be a dementor on you.”

Harry shrugged. “Yeah. After I testify, I’m gonna give him the friendship bracelet I made.”

“Oh, are you?” Ron grinned, but tried to hide it. It was useless: he’d never been able to hide his emotions really and his was a mouth that _wanted_ to smile and refused to temper the impulse. “Not the polka dot one though, right? That’s just for us.”

Harry shifted, affecting guilt, pressing his mouth together and looking down at the ground. “Well…”

“You bastard!” Ron laughed as he thumped Harry’s back, a loud clap that echoed in the corridor. Beside them, Hermione winced and Harry felt the thump reverberate through his ribcage. Still, it made him laugh louder, because it chased away a growing sense of unease that only got worse as he noticed Hermione checking her watch again.

“We should go in,” she said eventually and, as one, the three of them stood. Hermione looked between Ron and Harry and then nodded to herself, taking a step back. “I’m going to get us a seat.”

She disappeared quickly, her sharp steps ringing out and Harry looked from her back to Ron. “You going to come in with us?” he asked.

Ron tilted his head. “You know what? I don’t know. I’ve been sitting here thinking about it the whole time I’ve been here.”

“Really?” Harry asked, a smile crawling onto his face. “Because I thought you were thinking about demolishing that sandwich.”

“A man can do both,” Ron declared grandly. A second later, his smile disappeared. “I just don’t know if I want to see him.”

“I know, mate.” Harry reached out to clasp Ron’s arm. “I get it. I wouldn’t make you come.”

Ron shook his head. “Yeah and that’s it, isn’t it? You wouldn’t make me, but I know I should. It’s just — Mum got a bit. And you know what she’s like, but I don’t think she’s wrong, but I don’t know if she’s right either.”

Harry nodded again, because they’d talked about this and he didn’t need Ron to fill in all his sentences to know what he meant. He nodded, because he hadn’t quite known what to say when Ron had admitted that Bill had looked hurt for a brief second, or that Fleur had sworn in French, creatively and at length. Or he had assumed it was creatively but Ron didn’t speak French and couldn’t have said with any degree of certainty. He understood but Harry couldn’t help the whispering part of him that wanted to ask Ron to come anyway. 

“Look, Ron, you don’t have to come, honestly. You can stay out here and wait for us. It means a lot that you brought us lunch, even.” Harry folded his arms. “I don’t want to spoil my testimony but it’s not because we’re friends, and it’s not because I think he’s going to start healing the sick and tending to the needy if I make sure he doesn’t go down forever for this. I just wouldn’t be able to sit around and say nothing and let them lock him up when I don’t think he deserves that.”

“And Narcissa Malfoy asked you to,” Ron added.

Harry smiled. “And she asked me to.”

“You’re such a pushover,” Ron said. It was clear he was saying it just to talk. He shook his head and then the two of them were walking down the corridor, heading to the courtroom as it was called. “I can’t believe you’ve no backbone.”

“You’re right,” Harry said seriously, trying not to show how relieved he was as they walked in together. “I can feel it crumbling as we speak.”

Once they were seated, it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes before Draco Malfoy was brought into the court. Harry sat beside Ron, deliberately only looking forward. He could feel heavy stares and an artist appeared to be drawing pictures in the corner: he told himself that it didn’t matter if a portrait of him ended up in the morning paper. What mattered was that Malfoy was being led out, looking thinner than the last time Harry had seen him and somehow taller. Always pale, he looked even whiter, a shade off a ghost as he was led to his seat by his guards. Malfoy barely looked around him, but he didn’t look nervous. He looked quiet, private, too tired to be haughty. 

Harry swallowed and pressed his palms against the top of his thighs. 

When they asked Malfoy to confirm his name, if he understood why he was there, if he intended to be truthful, he spoke in short, clipped sentences. His voice sounded different to Harry and it made him look round at his friends, catching each of their eyes. Hermione was frowning deeply enough it cut a new line in between her eyebrows and Ron had her hand in his as he stared straight ahead. He turned to look at Harry and his face looked grim and set. 

Harry took a breath and listened as the charges were read out, as Malfoy responded, as the proceedings started. The cadence was slightly more familiar now but Harry couldn’t let himself get lost in it. He couldn’t stop himself from sneaking glances at Malfoy. _That_ made him feel like he was crumbling, a little: he’d known Malfoy so long, seen him so many different ways, and yet he couldn’t help but be taken aback by how he looked now. 

He caught Malfoy’s eye at one point and saw them widen, shock passing over him, followed by a long, slow reddening of his face. 

Harry found himself lifting his hand, in an almost wave. Malfoy furrowed his brow and he could feel Ron beside him turning to look at him. 

“Are you waving, mate?” Ron asked, voice just above a whisper, amusement and bemusement tangling together. 

“I think so.” Harry dropped his hand.

“Why?”

“Ron…I couldn’t tell you.”

It must have been good enough for Ron because he just nodded and they returned to silent observers until Harry was called. Malfoy’s gaze was a weight on his back as he headed towards the witness box; Harry pretended not to notice how heavy it was as he took his seat and the questioning began. 

The questions were mostly a blur, backwards and forwards and Harry frowning deeply at the prosecutor. 

“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” he heard himself ask at one point. 

The prosecutor, whose name Harry vaguely thought could have been Brighton but probably wasn’t, smiled at him with no warmth. “Of course, Mr Potter. I asked if you considered it at all odd that, considering the enmity between yourself and the defendant, you find yourself here today, telling everyone assembled that he’s not that bad, really.”

“I don’t think it’s particularly odd to dislike someone but think they don’t deserve life in Azkaban, if that’s what you mean.” Harry stared at the prosecutor again, his tone hard when he spoke. 

“You don’t think something else could be afoot?”

Harry turned his head, catching Hermione’s eye and then Ron’s. “Not really,” he said slowly. “He’s not bewitched me, if that’s what you mean. I’d think that’s a bit of a ridiculous suggestion considering I’ve been able to throw off an Imperius for a good number of years now.”

“Of course, Mr Potter, but you must admit —” 

“I mustn’t admit anything,” Harry interrupted. A ripple started to go through the crowd. “I think you’re trying to get me to say that I would only be here if, somehow, someone had forced me into it and that’s not the case. I didn’t like Malf – Draco Malfoy. That doesn’t mean that I think that he was running happily through fields of murder. I think he had a terrible choice and he chose wrongly, but I don’t know that there were a lot of options left. I wouldn’t call him brave, but he refused to identify me when we were captured and standing in front of Voldemort, which does require a great deal of bravery. There have been better men that have crumbled in similar situations and it could have backfired on him pretty badly, to be honest. I do not think that he’s a saint and I’m not blinkered or under any kind of spell. I’m telling you what happened. You can choose to interpret that how you want, I suppose, but it’s my understanding of events which is what you’ve asked for.”

There was a beat, the prosecutor pausing as he glanced towards the members of the Wizengamot, obviously debating with himself about what he was going to do next. Finally, he nodded and said, “Of course, Mr Potter. Thank you very much. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go over the night you say Mr Malfoy refused to identify you.”

Harry let himself fall back into the rhythm, question, answer, trying not to look at Malfoy more than he had to. It went on for longer than Narcissa’s had — much longer, actually, but he supposed the mark on Malfoy’s arm had to do with that. When Harry finally stood, dismissed by the Wizengamot, he could have demolished another one of Ron’s sandwiches. As he slunk bank into his seat, he lifted his head to look at Malfoy.

Malfoy stared at him for a long moment and then looked sharply away, back at his lawyer. Harry looked down at his hands. 

Harry did not keep going back to the trials. It seemed unnecessary after he testified and if he wanted to learn anything else, all he had to do was read a paper. The coverage was relentless, if tucked behind a few human interest stories — Neville took a trip to buy some new gloves and the paper talked about the size of his hands for a frankly ridiculous amount of time. Seamus had insisted everyone meet at the pub and read the article aloud, swooning and carrying on, pretending to fall at Neville’s feet until he’d turned red as a tomato. 

The memory of the evening burned bright in Harry’s mind. He thought about it, trying to recreate the tears of laughter gathering in Dean’s eyes, or how hard his ribs had hurt with the force of his own cackling. He thought about Ginny, tossing her hair and slamming her body back against the seat as she scream-laughed, and used the joy on each of his friend’s faces to try and chase back the memory of Voldemort’s. 

It worked, sometimes. It worked the morning Lucius’ verdict was delivered (Azkaban) and didn’t worked the morning of Narcissa’s. Harry dressed soberly for court, trying to lose himself in monotonous tasks. Brushing his teeth, his hair, picking socks. He realised he was going too far when he was staring at his feet, eyes unfocused and unseeing, mind lingering on memories of the forest as he tried to put his right foot into his left shoe.

It was a light sentence: house arrest until after Christmas, probation for a few years, a hefty fine. Harry watched Narcissa and remembered how it had felt to be carried through the forest, balling his hands into fists to try and contain everything he felt, to somehow make it more compact. He saw her smile of relief, the exhale she let out as the sentence was read and waited until after to talk to her. 

Hermione and Ron stayed behind too, lingering in the courtroom doorway as Harry made his way to Narcissa.

She watched his approach with a vague look on her face Harry didn’t know what to do with. The two of them stood, mostly in silence, for a few minutes before Narcissa said, “Please, Mr Potter, understand that I am very grateful. Should you need anything, at any time.”

Harry laughed. “Your son’s not had his verdict yet.”

Narcissa’s gaze, sharp and restless, fluttered around the courtroom. “Yes, well. We can only hope.”

Harry nodded, but he didn’t realise how much he had taken that to heart until he was standing in the courtroom, waiting for Draco Malfoy’s verdict. They had arrived too late to get a seat and the three of them, Harry, Ron and Hermione were pressed against the back row. Hermione rested her hip against the bench and was chewing on her lip, periodically turning to glare at anyone who whispered too loudly near them about something she did not like. 

“Wasn’t this meant to start twenty minutes ago?” Ron asked finally, rocking back onto his heels. “I told George I’d be home to help him by half four.”

“Yes,” Hermione snapped and then looked abashed. “Sorry. I’m just – do you think that something’s wrong?”

“Like what?”

From the look on her face, Harry almost wished he hadn’t asked but two seconds later and she was raising her hands to twist at her hair. “Oh, I don’t know! You hear such awful stories about custody these days. Or all days, but I’ve been reading about it so it seems more prevalent right now.”

“I dunno,” Ron said after a moment, with a long, slow shrug. “I wouldn’t mind getting the opportunity to kick some of them in the family jewels.”

Hermione’s look was sharp. “But you _wouldn’t_ , not when you had power over them, right?”

Ron looked at her and then shook his head. “’Course not. I’m a fine upstanding young man.”

“Maybe that’s what Molly says, but we know better.” Harry flashed Ron a grin, shoulder checking him as Ron pretended to be more put out than he was. 

Ron was just declaring his third “Well, I never!” when the court hushed and Malfoy was led in. He still looked too pale, too thin, too tall. He looked nervous too, biting hard on his lip as he was led to the defendant’s box and the guard cast the spell to keep him there. Harry watched Malfoy’s eyes travel everywhere, almost seeming to swivel in opposite directions at once. He looked restless, like he was dying to fidget and couldn’t. Harry felt anxious just looking at him. 

Then, because he could fidget even if Malfoy couldn’t, he stuck his thumb nail into his mouth and bit down on it. The noise was too loud and Hermione cut a glance at him, making a disapproving noise in the back of her throat. “Stop biting your nails,” she hissed. 

“It means I don’t have to cut them later, Mum,” Harry murmured back. 

“Quiet down, the two of you.” Ron looked particularly smug at getting the opportunity to say that and turned to the front of the court as they started proceedings. Harry watched the Wizengamot pour in and found he didn’t know whether he wanted to look at Malfoy or not. 

He did, though. He couldn’t help himself. He watched Malfoy’s face split up, delight, relief, and _fear_ plain to see when he was told what was going to happen to him: probation. House arrest. A suspended sentence. Malfoy dropped his face into his hands, hair falling forward, and took several huge breaths. His shoulders didn’t shake but it looked like he was struggling not to cry. Harry averted his eyes. 

“Let’s go,” he said. Ron and Hermione followed right behind him as they left. 

Several days passed and Harry mostly ignored the papers. There was a steady stream of visitors, no matter where he was: Ron was a constant at Hermione’s house, the three of them sitting in the kitchen until Ron and Hermione would disappear upstairs and Harry would camp out in front of the TV, flicking through channels or trying to lose himself in some of the books around the house. The Weasley’s home was always bustling, too, but Harry found it odd being there and feeling their grief. It sat heavy on each member of the family and Fred’s hand on the clock had moved to **DEAD**. (He had asked Ron about it and Ron had shrugged helplessly. “Dad said he’s going to look at it sometime. I think it upsets Mum.”) 

He even went back to Grimmauld Place, trying to ignore the clenching of his stomach every time. If it hurt, it hurt but that didn’t mean it wasn’t necessary. Harry had stood in the doorway of the house every time, told himself that it was going to be worth it and then entered. Kreacher was always delighted, Walburga was always less so, and bit by bit Harry was trying to make the house less stomach-churningly depressing. Sometimes, someone else would help him. 

Ginny was with him the day that Malfoy owl arrived again. 

Having mostly tackled the hallway (Walburga would have to be dealt with after), Harry had decided that it was probably best to go to the kitchen. He loved Hermione’s kitchen; he loved the Weasley’s; he loved Hogwarts’. He wanted to love the kitchen of the house he owned, wanted to see parts of his own heart reflected back at him. 

He wanted to but instead he found himself sitting at a slightly dusty kitchen table, a bottle of newly opened firewhiskey calling his name. Ginny poured the measures, as blessedly heavy-handed as her brothers had taught her to be, making sure they were always evenly matched. Harry kept his hands wrapped around the glass, watching her as she flung back her latest shot. 

She was beautiful, her hair thick and shining and pulled high into a knot at the top of her head. She was laughing at something — a story Seamus had told her the night before when there had been a group pub night that Harry begged off, a thoroughly embellished story about his latest fiasco with the postwoman he had developed a gigantic crush on. The laughter brightened her face but there was something in the grim determination in her expression that made Harry’s heart ache. 

When she reached for the whiskey again, Harry reached for her wrist. Ginny hesitated and looked up at him, her head tilted to one side. “Harry?”

“I think we should eat maybe,” he said, running his thumb over her pulse point. He felt it jump and smiled. “If we keep this up, we’re going to be smashed before lunch time.”

“We survived a war,” Ginny said, raising her eyebrows. “A lot of build up, then a war, then a lot of funerals and a lot of trials. I think we deserve to be able to drink in the morning.”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh. Ginny’s eyes were bright and her mouth turned upwards, a hair away from a proper grin, as she looked at him. “On a Wednesday, though?”

“They call it hump day, I heard,” Ginny said grandly. “It’s just to help us get over that.”

“What if I like a good hump day?” Harry asked. There was a beat and then he screwed up his face, holding up a hand. “Don’t. Don’t. I heard it.”

It was too late. Ginny had already started into explosive laughter, throwing her head back so forcefully that the hair on top of her head wobbled. Harry groaned and covered his face with his hands, shaking his head forcefully. 

“You like a good hump……...day, do you?” Ginny squealed out, between brays of laughter. Her whole body was shaking and Harry had to prise his fingers away from his eyes to watch her. It was almost impressive the way Ginny could just keep laughing, how she never seemed to run out of air. Harry pushed his hands through his hair and tried to pretend he wasn’t going beetroot red, even when Ginny pointed it out gleefully. 

The laughter carried on for long enough that Harry had time to sip at his own drink as Ginny regained her composure, face almost as red as her hair, dashing tears of laughter out of her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she gasped out. “It was just your _face_ , too. You really can’t hack it, can you, Potter?”

“Not even a bit, Weasley,” Harry said, but he was glad to see her looking lighter. He didn’t mind the embarrassment so much. “You know I hate being teased.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ginny said, breezily. “I’ve known you to like it a time or two.” Then, she winked; Harry felt the back of his neck heat up again. 

The owl saved him from having to figure out what to say (did he laugh? Did he say something flirty? What was flirty? Had he ever flirted before in his life?). It swooped in, dropping the letter in front of Harry and then retreating to perch on the kitchen counter. Ginny blinked at the owl in surprise and Harry stared at it too, dumbstruck. It was because he was staring that he noticed the owl tenderly turn in circles, apparently displeased at the layer of dust on the counter. 

Harry shifted his gaze to the letter in front of him. He recognised the handwriting from last time, ornate but precise. He reached for it, turning the envelope over and easing it out. 

“Who’s it from?” Ginny asked, leaning forward to peer at the letter. 

“Narcissa Malfoy.” Harry heard the disgusted noise that Ginny made, although he barely registered it outside of noise as he looked down at the paper. It wasn’t a long letter — in fact, he wasn’t sure it could even be called a letter.

> _Dear Mr Harry Potter,_
> 
> _I would be much obliged if you would join me for tea tomorrow at 3 p.m. at Malfoy Manor. There will be light refreshments provided. My son will no doubt be in attendance._
> 
> _If the time does not suit, we can rearrange. Please send your reply back with Herbert, who I have instructed to wait for your response._
> 
> _Kind regards,_
> 
> _Narcissa Malfoy._

Harry read it twice, then lifted his head and blinked at Herbert (apparently). The owl stared back at him as if it thought he was a moron. He wondered if maybe the whiskey had gone to his head much too quickly, but then Ginny reached for the letter and read it aloud so he was also pretty sure he wasn’t imagining it.

Ginny scrunched her nose. “Why are all the Malfoy’s so weird?” she asked. “ _Much obliged._ Who talks like that?”

“Posh people, probably,” Harry said. “They’re always talking nonsense. Hermione and I went to Oxford for the day not long ago and eavesdropped.”

“For fun?” 

“Not really.” Harry couldn’t remember what the point had been, other than they could go anywhere they wanted now and Hermione had been pretending not to cry all that morning as she looked at pictures of her parents. Harry had suggested Oxford, but it was only because they had been on University Challenge the night before. “The eavesdropping mostly happened by accident.”

He stood, walking past Herbert ( _Herbert_ ) and opening a drawer where he had shoved some quills not long before. He pulled a sheet of parchment out too and then turned back. Ginny was looking at him with a strange expression on her face, cradling the empty whiskey glass against her chest. 

“You’re going to go,” she said. There was no hint of a question in her voice. 

Harry shrugged. “I’m curious.”

“You know, they say curiosity killed the cat. And they also say Narcissa Malfoy is an annoying, uptight arse who did one good thing in her life and they would be right!” Ginny sat her glass down on the table, precisely, gently. She looked fierce, even though she was avoiding eye contact with Harry, and he could see her mostly in profile. Her jaw was set. 

“Gin — “

“Gin, nothing.” Ginny tapped her fingers against the table. “I know, Harry. I just don’t want to hear about it, okay? Let’s just — you were right. We should get something to eat. I’m going to get lunch from the deli on the corner and I’ll come back with it. And when we’ve done that, we can talk about Narcissa Malfoy’s invitation like civilised people, but right now I want to go outside and kick your gate while picturing it’s her smug face.”

Harry was quiet for a second and then nodded. “I’ve heard kicking a gate is good for temper control.”

Ginny’s grin was quicksilver. “You’re the one who taught me all about that.” She stood quickly, almost bolting across the kitchen floor to him. She was much shorter than him and Harry liked that she had to lift herself up onto the tips of her toes to brush her mouth against his cheek. He liked that he could smell her perfume, citrus and sharp, twisting its way up into his senses. “I’ll be ten minutes.”

“I’ll allow an extra five, if you need to kick the gate some more when you come back,” Harry said. Ginny laughed, her breath warm against the side of his face and she squeezed his hand as she stepped back. Her anger was still clinging to her, but he could tell she was trying to keep a tighter hold on it. He smiled at Ginny, watching her leave before he turned to Herbert. 

Herbert looked at him calmly and pointedly. Harry shrugged. “Look, she’s every right to not like Malfoy’s,” he said. Herbert turned his beak away. “Don’t be rude,” Harry found himself saying as he dashed off a return response. 

__

> _Sounds good to me, Mrs Malfoy. I will be there – Harry_

Even though Harry had been back to Malfoy Manor since the war had ended, it didn’t stop him from pausing outside the gate, staring up at the large home. The gates had obviously expected him — once he got within two feet they sprang open with a sprightly move that startled Harry and made him stumble backwards. He blinked at them and heard himself mutter a thank you as he walked through, tramping up the drive.

Malfoy Manor was large and looked gloomy still. There were many windows and about half of them were dark, as if there were heavy curtains drawn throughout. The garden around him looked as if the gardener had rebelled, handing in their notice months before and only a cursory effort had been made since to keep it neat. There were rose bushes gone thick, something practically wood-like with heavy thorns curling up the path. Parts of the grass looked like they’d been cut and others Harry was pretty sure would come up to his hip. He took it all in as he walked. The last time he had been here his stomach had been tighter with dread and anticipation; he’d practically ignored his surroundings, unable to notice anything but the swirling mass of emotions inside of him. 

He was deliberately trying not to focus on that this time. 

When he reached the door, Harry stared at the large knocker for longer than it really warranted. It was huge, in the shape of a bird which could have been a swan or possibly a peacock — t was hard to tell when half of it had been blasted away, probably from a stray Death Eater’s curse. Harry reached for it and knocked.

After two minutes, he had to admit that no one had heard him. 

He knocked again. 

Another two minutes passed. 

Harry looked down at his watch and wished he’d brought the invitation. But he didn’t _need_ to. He knew exactly what the invitation had said. Glancing at his watch again, he lifted his hand and banged the knocker several times against the door. 

“ _ALL RIGHT_ ,” a voice thundered from inside and the door was wrenched open a few seconds later. 

Harry blinked into Draco Malfoy’s face, mouth opening into an ‘o’ of surprise.

For a second they both stared at each other. Malfoy didn’t look quite so stark when he wasn’t in a prison uniform, but he was still as thin. He was taller, too, and had a few inches on Harry. He was wearing a plain white shirt which was obviously too large for him and a pair of plain grey trousers. Everything he wore looked expensive and soft and his feet were entirely bare. Harry stared at them. His toes looked strangely vulnerable. 

“You’re not wearing shoes,” he said, dumbly. 

Malfoy frowned at him, furrowing his brow deeply, before looking down at his own feet. “Yes, bravo, wonderful job those specs are doing there, Potter.” He sounded sour. “It’s rude to wear shoes indoors. Take yours off if you’re coming in.”

“I’m coming in?” Harry wasn’t sure why it was a question. 

“Unless you’ve changed your mind, I suppose.” Malfoy shrugged, lifting one shoulder, conveying for all the world that it clearly didn’t matter to him one way or the other what Harry did. He stepped back. “If you have, tell me now and I can let Mother know.”

“No, I – no that’s all right.” Harry wavered in the doorway for a moment, trying and failing not to stare at Malfoy, who looked angrier every time he noticed Harry looking at him. Finally, he threw his hands up – quite literally, threw them into the air – and stepped back into the hall. 

“Shoes off, Potter, and follow me.”

Harry stared at Malfoy’s back before quickly realising he needed to hurry if he wanted to know where he was going. He pulled his trainers off and kicked them by the side of the door, running after Malfoy. His socked feet slipped against the tiles and after the second time he nearly went skidding he shouted out, “Malfoy, are you not going to slow down?”

Malfoy stopped and turned. His expression was the picture of distaste. “Aren’t you going to hurry up? You’re late.”

Harry felt annoyance spike his pulse. “I was not late! I was on time! No one answered the door.”

Malfoy sniffed. “I answered it, didn’t I?” 

“The fourth time I knocked!”

“Ludicrous.” Malfoy lifted his chin and glanced at Harry once, from the corner of his eye. It seemed to make him decide to lift his chin even higher. Harry hated it. “There’s no point in lying, Potter, no one here is going to believe you anyway.”

“You’re such a —”

Harry was cut short by Malfoy stopping abruptly and throwing open a door. It was too dramatic an entrance and Harry cringed away, even as Malfoy strode into the room. Compared to the rest of the manor, the room seemed practically pleasant. It was clearly a study of some kind and it gave the impression of caging them in with books. The bookcases were mammoth, stretching from ceiling to floor, and crowded. There were not only books on them, but decorations – a huge globe, several jewellery boxes, and candlesticks interspersed the collection. There were portraits at the head of the room and a large desk in one corner whose surface was covered in neat piles of books and papers. The middle of the room was dominated by something Harry _wanted_ to describe as a coffee table, but the word didn’t do it justice. Even to Harry (hardly an expert) it looked expensive and old, the wood so dark it gleamed. There were two sofas around it and several armchairs, not one of which matched but which all screamed ‘I cost more than you could possibly imagine.’ Narcissa Malfoy sat on one of the sofas, a book in hand. As they entered, she calmly marked her place and looked at Malfoy for a moment before transferring her gaze to Harry.

“Mr Potter, thank you very much for coming. I apologise if Draco kept you waiting.”

Harry could see the scowl on Malfoy’s face even from his profile. Harry had to fight to suppress his smile. “Only a little. It was fine. Call me Harry.”

Narcissa nodded. “Of course. Forgive me.” She set her book onto the table gingerly and then looked at Malfoy. The two of them seemed to have a private conversation conducted entirely by looking at each other. Harry watched Malfoy’s face tighten with displeasure and then Narcissa nodded. “Draco is going to let us have a moment and then we’ll take tea together.”

“Draco is,” Malfoy said, still sounding incredibly sour. It was mingled with disbelief, as if he couldn’t quite grasp that this was his life as he headed towards the door. Harry watched his back again, struck once more by how thin he was and how weird it was to see Malfoy barefoot, sauntering around in a shirt so large it kind of made him look like a pirate. 

Harry turned his face away and looked at Narcissa as the door closed behind Malfoy. “Um,” he said, and then nothing else came to mind.

“Why don’t you sit, Harry?” Narcissa asked. She didn’t move, which Harry was glad for because then it meant he didn’t have to sit beside her. Instead, he chose the sofa facing hers and sat down, not quite sinking back into the plush cushions. They looked at each other, neither of them speaking at first, before Narcissa started to smile. “I wanted to thank you again.”

“I don’t need thanks.” Harry wondered what he usually did with his body when he sat down. Did he cross his legs? Did he cross his arms? Did he slouch? He couldn’t remember and, instead, he decided to do nothing but keep very, very still. “I wasn’t doing it for that.”

“Of course not.” 

Narcissa had sounded slightly doubtful and Harry decided he couldn’t leave that alone. “No, I mean it. I don’t want thanks. I don’t want you to feel like you owe me or anything. It doesn’t matter to me. I just genuinely — I’m just really grateful for what you did and I meant what I said in court, you know? I don’t think you deserve to be punished again and again, without taking into account what you did to help either.” Harry shrugged. He sat on his hands so he didn’t start picking at his nails or biting them. 

“Harry, while that’s a very admirable sentiment, I think we can both agree that I hardly did much to help.” Narcissa looked slightly pinched, her mouth slanting upwards, her eyes bright. Harry wondered how genuine it was and then pushed the thought away.

“Well. It’s like the saying goes. Every little helps.”

Narcissa frowned. “I admit I haven’t heard precisely that.”

“It’s Tesco. It’s not important.” He wanted to wave one hand dismissively and started to, only to realise it was squashed under his thigh. Instead, he half-shrugged and tried not to think about how ridiculous it probably looked. “I think that this’ll all be way more comfortable for both of us if we don’t have to keep talking about gratitude, though.”

“I think you’re right,” Narcissa said, nodding her head in agreement. She shifted slightly and Harry thought it was to look more comfortable. “We can put some of it to rest then. Though I’m afraid I did instruct Blighter to prepare the gratitude cupcakes.”

Because he couldn’t think of anything to say to that, Harry just stared at her. There were many questions that rushed through him at once — was that a joke? Was Blighter a house elf? Surely, they were but then why that name? Who had named a house elf _Blighter_? (Who had named an owl Herbert?) Hadn’t the Malfoy’s had a significant number of assets stripped in the form of reparations? It seemed impossible to pick one and Harry didn’t consciously try, just letting the words slip out. “Blighter?” he heard himself ask, voice weak.

Narcissa sighed. “Yes. Not my idea, of course.” She chose not to elaborate and Harry felt he couldn’t push. She lifted her wand and although Harry tracked the movement with his eyes she simply waved it and then set it back down again. To his curious look, she said, “I’m summoning both tea and my son. Nothing to worry about.”

Cheeks reddening, Harry said, “I’m not worried. I was just wondering.”

“Of course. Now, I suppose I should ask: what have you been doing with yourself, Harry?”

Harry hated that question and, frankly, he wasn’t sure that Narcissa Malfoy would like the answer. The truth was that he’d spent weeks upon weeks attending funerals and memorials and wakes, he’d sat with the Weasley’s while their grief was still fresh and unwieldy and Molly Weasley had cleaned and banked and cooked like her life depended on it. He’d visited the Creevey family, the pit in his stomach huge and gaping and sickening, as Bobby Creevey had shown him pictures of himself in Colin’s album. He had spent more time than he cared for apologising to people and sitting with their grief and when he wasn’t doing that, he was finding friends to disappear with. The day trips to Oxford and the nights in the pub, or that time he’d desperately searched out Seamus and they had ended up accidentally exploding the wreck of a car in a scrapyard. None of it sounded overly compelling or like things he should share. 

“I’ve been keeping myself busy,” he said, after a brief, awkward silence. “We had a lot of funerals and then, well, I’ve been visiting a lot.” Narcissa Malfoy did not need to know about depression afternoon maps either. 

Nodding, Narcissa said, “I understand. It’s dreadful to be unable to do anything.” 

Harry was stuck on wondering whether she was sympathising or making a veiled comment about how horrible house arrest was when there was a loud crack outside the study and then the doors opened. Malfoy was standing just behind Blighter, obviously a house elf, slouching against a wall and looking very bored. As Blighter walked in, he straightened and came into the room after him. 

“Are you finished?” he asked his mother, barely sparing Harry a glance. Narcissa nodded and gestured at her son and Malfoy came to her side slowly, hesitating before he sat. He was still not looking at Harry. 

For some reason it annoyed Harry. He looked away from them, watching the house elf as he covered the table in front of them with cups and an assortment of refreshments. There were cupcakes and macaroons and small sandwiches. There were some kind of cream buns that Harry didn’t know the name of and cherry bakewells and a few croissants. There was much more food than three people would need. 

He looked at Blighter and smiled at the same time Narcissa said, “That will be all, Blighter, thank you.”

Blighter stepped back and disappeared before Harry could say anything at all. He didn’t want to touch any of the food suddenly, but Narcissa didn’t seem to notice. She lifted a cup of tea and placed a bun onto a plate, which she set to levitate by her elbow. When Harry looked up, he couldn’t help but look at Malfoy too. 

Malfoy was glaring at the macaroons. 

It cheered Harry up to see and he reached forward, deliberately picking the one that Malfoy had graced with the full force of his glare. This seemed to startle Malfoy, who briefly looked up at Harry, and then transferred his glare to a different macaroon. Unable to stop himself from grinning at it (it was just so _ridiculous_ ), Harry tried to hide his smile by taking a bite out of the macaroon. 

He did not love it. 

As he chewed, Narcissa started to talk again. In fact, Narcissa did most of the talking. Harry spoke mostly to her, answering questions, trying to dredge his own up. He didn’t know how to talk to Narcissa Malfoy: it wasn’t as if he could ask her how she felt about politics, or Voldemort, and asking ‘how’s the house arrest going’ was a kind of insensitive he knew to avoid. Conversation did not flow freely though Narcissa seemed to be listening to everything he said, even when Harry could hear himself trailing off.

The weirdest part of the afternoon was how quiet Malfoy was. His presence made Harry feel like he had to keep his posture as stiff and straight as possible. He wanted Malfoy to say something but, then again, for most of his life Harry had hated nearly every single word that came out of Malfoy’s mouth. Sitting in his mother’s study in his own house, though, Harry expected Malfoy to say something. 

When he kept mostly quiet throughout, Harry decided not to press it. He finished one cup of tea and took another, mostly to be polite. Harry ate one of the gratitude cupcakes and thought Ron would like them enough that he asked if he could take one home. Although Malfoy stared at him, he still didn’t say much of anything, just watching as Narcissa nodded and Blighter appeared to put them in a box for him. 

It was finally time to leave and Harry stood when Narcissa did. Malfoy remained seated.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to take more buns? Draco and I would hardly eat all of them.”

Harry shook his head. “No, honestly. But thanks. I appreciate it.”

“So do I.” Narcissa walked with him to the door of the study. “Please feel free to call at any time for tea.”

Harry grinned lopsidedly. It sounded like the exact kind of polite invitation he expected — something that Narcissa didn’t mean, but felt that she had to say. What else would she be able say after having tea with someone who had testified for her? Harry wondered if she would be relieved if he told her that he had no intentions of coming back, then decided not to. If she was going to be polite, he could be too. “Thanks,” he said instead.

“I’ll call Blighter to —”

“I’m going to walk him out.” 

Both Narcissa and Harry turned to look at Malfoy. Harry saw his surprise mirrored in Narcissa’s face before she hid most of it away. In contract, he was completely unable to hide his own shock, his mouth falling open as he blinked continuously at Malfoy. Malfoy looked at him for a second, a muscle in his jaw twitching, before he made eye contact with his mother again. Narcissa and Malfoy kept staring at each other for what felt like an eternity while Harry stood and tried to stop himself from gaping like a fish. 

Eventually, Narcissa said, “If you wish, Draco.”

“I wish.” He sounded grim about it, stalking over to the door of the study. Harry flexed his fingers around the box filled with cupcakes in his hand, gave Narcissa a bewildered look and a muttered goodbye, before he turned and followed Malfoy. 

Malfoy, who waited to ensure he was following and then walked in front of Harry. 

After a good twenty seconds of silence, Harry said, “I don’t really like this routine we’ve got. You, swanning ahead. Me, staring at your back.”

“Well, stop staring then.” Malfoy didn’t stop but he slowed slightly. “I’m not swanning.”

“No,” Harry admitted. He made a considering noise. “It’s more like stalking. You’re right.”

“I’m not _stalking_ either!” Malfoy stopped then, coming to a halt at the top of a flight of stairs. He looked down them, apparently considering something himself, before he turned. His face was flushed. “Why did you come here, Potter?”

Harry frowned. “Your mum invited me? I got a letter yesterday.”

Although Harry felt his explanation was perfectly sound, Malfoy very obviously and violently disagreed. He made a noise of disgust, glared at Harry and then turned as if he was going to stalk down the stairs. At the last moment, he appeared to think better of it and twirled back around. Harry noticed the shirt billowed out around him. It really was very piratey. 

“Don’t play dumb with me, Potter. You and I both know that being here is probably last on your list of things you want to do. Why do you _want_ to have tea with my mother? Why are you _here_? It’s not like you were having the time of your life.” Malfoy looked very pleased with himself, underneath his layer of irritation. 

“Not really,” Harry said, making his voice deliberately as calm as possible, “but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. And she asked me, Malfoy. I said yes. That’s it.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“ _You’re _ridiculous.” It came out before Harry could stop it and he wrinkled his nose immediately. Getting into a spat sounded like a terrible idea, but the temptation was nearly overwhelming when Malfoy was standing in front of him, clearly determined to be a right berk. Malfoy’s nostrils flared and Harry realised that he was going to have to be the bigger person. “Look, Malfoy, I’m not here to fight with you —”__

__“That’s it exactly!” Malfoy burst out. “I don’t know why you’re here! I don’t know why you do anything you do! You may be able to just testify at people’s trials and drop by their houses and eat all their buns but it frankly doesn’t mean you should.”_ _

__Twelve months ago, Harry would have launched straight into an argument. Even six months ago, he probably would have. Now, though, he was tired in a way that he hadn’t adjusted to yet and when he looked at Malfoy all Harry could see was the exhaustion clinging to him. There were heavy bags under his eyes and his face was still so thin. Harry pulled a face and looked down at the floor. Malfoy’s trousers were turned up and the bones of his ankles looked prominent. He was taller than Harry but Harry thought he looked infinitely more fragile. Standing at the top of the stairs, his hands on his hips and his shoulders lifted as if preparing to fight, Harry thought he looked for all the world like he was poised on a precipice that frightened him._ _

__Scrubbing a hand over his face, Harry shrugged. “There were plenty of buns left back there, Malfoy, your mum said so.”_ _

__Malfoy’s own jaw dropped. Harry took a moment to revel in it — it wasn’t often he had seen the other boy completely gobsmacked — and then he took a step forward, prepared to shoulder past Malfoy. As he passed, Malfoy’s hand shot out, grabbing a hold of Harry’s forearm. The strength of the grip surprised Harry and he paused, turning wide eyes on Malfoy. Almost immediately, Malfoy let go of his arm, although Harry could still feel the phantom press of Malfoy’s fingers._ _

__They stared at each other, Malfoy tilting his chin down, eyes cool and unreadable. Harry refused to look away first._ _

__“Don’t come again, Potter. It’s weird and we don’t need you.”_ _

__The thrill of not being the one to break the silence was almost enough to distract Harry from anything else. He barely heard what Malfoy said at first and when he did Harry was mildly surprised by the wave of pettiness he felt rise up in him._ _

__He smiled at Malfoy, pleasantly enough that the other boy looked startled, and then Harry began to walk down the stairs. Malfoy followed after a few moments. Harry only spoke again once they were at the door and Malfoy had opened it. As long as the door was open, Harry would be able to leave and wouldn’t be forced to stay and have some ridiculous argument that he wasn’t going to enjoy anyway._ _

__“Of course you don’t need me, Malfoy, I hope you know I never thought that.” Malfoy was staring at him with narrowed eyes as Harry stepped over the threshold of the door and then turned. “However, I’ll definitely be seeing you more in the future. Tell your mum I’ll be writing to her to arrange another tea as soon as possible.”_ _

__Malfoy spluttered with indignation, a picture Harry _really_ did love to see, but Harry knew he couldn’t stick around to admire it. Instead, he started to practically power walk down the lane, heading for the gates and the end of the anti-apparation wards. Within seconds, Malfoy was shouting his name but Harry didn’t hear anyone chasing after him so he didn’t pay it much attention at all._ _

__Once he reached the gates, he paused for a second, letting out a loud bark of laughter, before apparating away._ _

__Unfortunately, Malfoy was definitely the architect of his own annoyance._ _


	2. pt ii. (late summer)

As Harry had suspected, Ron did love the cupcakes. Not only did he love them, he professed a deep infatuation with them. His favourite was the mint and pistachio one which he shoved into his face with such fervour that it was almost admirable. Harry stood, shoulder-to-shoulder with Hermione, watching the proceedings with a kind of rapt fascination he suspected they should have divulged of long ago when it came to Ron and his appetite.

“Mate, this is so good,” Ron moaned, through a mouthful of cupcake. He wiped crumbs off of his chin and looked over at the two of them. “I can’t believe you didn’t get more of them!”

“I brought back a dozen cupcakes,” Harry said, warm and amused. Beside him, he felt Hermione suppressing her laughter. 

“Should’ve got more,” Ron said, sagely. He did not take another bite right away, but instead looked at the cupcake in his hand. “D’you reckon if my parents had been mad and followed some bizarre megalomaniac that we would have had cupcakes like this?” He sounded wistful and dreamy. 

Hermione snorted. “Would you tell your mum Narcissa Malfoy’s cupcakes are better than hers?”

Ron’s head whipped around in alarm and he looked at her with despair. “Hermione, this is no time for jokes. It’s time for a sacred ritual between one man and the food he loves. That he will never, ever tell his mother about.”

Harry laughed and reached for one of the remaining cupcakes, coffee and walnut, and began to pull it apart as he watched Ron wolf down the rest of his cupcake. “Merlin it’s just so good,” Ron said again, shaking his head. “I wonder if she makes them herself.”

“Probably not.” Harry popped some of the cupcake into his mouth. “They still had a house elf. I reckon he probably does most of it.” He couldn’t stop himself from remembering the gloom over the house, the thick vegetation and overgrowth in the garden. The curtains he had noticed from the lane. “I guess it’s probably a bit much for him. The place didn’t look well looked after.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t be,” Hermione said, propping her chin onto her first. She looked around the kitchen. “The Wizengamot took a lot from the Malfoy’s and it’s hardly as if the Death Eaters left Malfoy Manor all neat and tidy.”

“A lot from the Malfoy’s,” Ron scoffed. “If you take millions off of people who have multi millions, it’s not really a lot.”

“I’m refraining from passing judgement,” Hermione said. 

“Oh is that a new hobby of ours?” Harry asked, tilting his head towards her. Hermione glared at him. “No, seriously. Are we going to be like the Non-Judging Breakfast Club?” 

“Oi!” Ron looked at them, disbelief on his face. “Do you lot have a breakfast club I’m not being invited too? Because that’s discrimination, that is.”

Harry just about muffled his laughter, pressing the sleeve of his shirt against his mouth to hide the sound behind. “Discrimination?” he asked, voice sounding strained.

“Yes!” Ron looked like he was gearing up to get on a roll. “Based on not living here! It’s not my fault I don’t live here. I try and I try, but I can’t say no to my mum. You’ve all had her roast beef! It’s got its hooks into me and now I feel like I’m being punished for liking food.”

“You’re not being punished for liking food, Ronald,” Hermione said. She was much better at not laughing than Harry. “We also don’t have a breakfast club.” 

“We could have one, though,” Harry supplied, helpfully. Hermione turned a sharp look on him as Ron groaned. “I mean, only when Ron comes over obviously. Two people don’t make much of a club.”

“Yeah! Exactly!” Ron’s voice had climbed louder with excitement. “I’m saving the two of you from having a really shit club.”

Hermione gave up on trying not to laugh and leaned fully against the counter, burying her face in her hands for a moment. Her freshly-braided hair even shook with the force of it. “You’re a saint, Ron.”

“You’re damn right I am,” he said and leaned over the counter, tugging lightly at the end of one of Hermione’s braids. She looked up and her face brightened; Harry turned his head so he didn’t feel like some kind of awkward spy watching his friends kiss. 

“Harry’s a saint too, of course,” Ron said, calling Harry’s attention back. He winked at him. “Spending all that time with the Malfoy’s. Don’t know how you did it, mate.”

“It wasn’t that bad, I guess.” And then, amending grudgingly: “It was very awkward. And Malfoy didn’t talk at all basically when we were all in the same room.”

“You mentioned that.” Hermione reached across to pick a crumb off Ron’s plate. “Maybe he just couldn’t think of anything to say, Harry, you know. It’s hardly as if the two of you have many common interests.”

“She’s right, mate.” Ron nodded, looking proudly at Hermione. “And even though it’ll be funny as anything if you keep going back to bother him, you know that means you have to actually be there, right?” The more he spoke, the less proud Ron looked. Instead, his expression looked like a mixture of amused and concerned, clearly not sure which emotion he should let triumph. 

“I know.” Harry morosely eyeballed his cupcake and then he lifted the best bit, the bit with the icing, up to his mouth. He always saved it for last. “You should’ve seen his face, though. It’s gonna be worth it.”

The next time Harry stood at Malfoy Manor’s gates he couldn’t help but wonder if it _was_ going to be worth it. It had been just over a fortnight since the last tea and Harry had been very deliberate in the amount of time he had waited (exactly fourteen days) before sending an owl to Narcissa to ask about tea. He had come up with the exact right amount of time to wait with Ginny one night, the two of them sitting squished together on the Weasley’s sofa, everyone else upstairs in their own rooms. Harry didn’t know exactly what was happening anymore between the two of them — it was a shifting, headless monster that neither of them wanted to directly address at the minute. Instead of talking about it, they talked about other things or they drank or plotted how many days it would take for Malfoy to think that Harry had been bluffing.

Fourteen had been perfect. Harry had even laughed to himself a little as he sent the owl off and then had to immediately stop because it made him feel a bit like a supervillain. Honestly, it also seemed like less of a laughing matter when he was faced with the very real prospect of making conversation for the next hour at least. 

Harry squared his shoulders and walked up to the gate. Again, it sprang open. Again, Harry was struck by the disarray of the garden. He walked slowly up the lane leading to the front door, already anticipating knocking for a good few minutes (this time, he had built that into when he arrived) but halfway up the lane, the front door was flung open. Harry watched as Malfoy tore through the front door and down towards Harry. He was glad to notice that, this time, Malfoy was wearing shoes. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Malfoy shouted. He must have been practically screeching it, for Harry to hear him. After an internal debate that lasted barely a moment, Harry continued walking. “Potter, I asked you a question!”

“I’m walking, Malfoy.”

“I’m not _blind_ , Potter, I can see that. I want to know what you think you’re doing.” Malfoy’s volume decreased the closer he got, as if he was vaguely aware it wasn’t appropriate to scream in Harry’s face. It didn’t stop him from shouting but at least it wasn’t the full explosion Harry had been half-dreading.

“I think I’m going to have tea. With your mother. I wrote to her a couple of days ago.” Harry tried to continue on but Malfoy had come to a stop just in front of him. His eyes were flashing, grey and hard as stone. His face was slightly pink but Harry couldn’t have said whether it was from the shouting or the run down the lane. Harry regarded him for a moment and then moved to go past him; Malfoy moved directly into his path. 

“You are not getting past me.”

“Malfoy, I am.”

“No.” Malfoy drew himself up to his full height. “You may think that everyone’s going to just fall at your feet — Saviour Potter, back at it again! — but I won’t. I won’t just let you come in here and upset _everything._ ”

This idea had been much better when Harry had come up with it. He realised that fact somewhere between when Malfoy started speaking and when he finished, probably around the exact moment that Harry felt his temper spike. He tried to take a breath and breathe through it — a technique that Hermione had been insisting would help for years — but it didn’t work. Instead, Harry felt himself focus on the irritation even more. 

“Don’t you think that we’re getting a bit too old for this ‘saviour’ nonsense?” Harry demanded.

“ _OLD_?” Malfoy screeched again. He looked as if he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. “ _OLD??_ Potter, I am _nineteen._ I am not too old for anything at all.”

“Shouldn’t you be?” 

“No! I most certainly should not be. You can try and lord it over the rest of us however you want, that you’re so _mature_ and _grown up_ , but I refuse to take it lying down.”

Harry squinted at Malfoy, wondering how he had possibly forgotten how loud he could get. Malfoy had been barely a part of his last year and, before that, sixth year had marked such a change in the other boy. He supposed it had been a while since he had had to listen to a Malfoy tirade and he’d somehow forgotten how chaotically bizarre he could be. Harry raised a hand to massage his temples; Malfoy looked extremely affronted. 

“Malfoy, believe it or not, I’m not here to see you. I’m here to see your mother.”

“Too bad! I’m here too! You’ve got me!” Malfoy’s eyes were huge and wild.

“Can I maybe not have you then?” Harry started trying to walk. Malfoy had clearly not expected it and he let him pass before making a sputtering noise and matching their steps. “I never placed the order and I’d like to return it.”

“This is my house. I live here. In fact, I’m under _house arrest_ at this very address so just in case you wondered what that means it means I’m going to be very underfoot. At all times.” Malfoy narrowed his eyes at Harry. “You better watch your back, Potter. I won’t be caught out by you.”

A smile spread across Harry’s face, slow as treacle and just as sickly sweet. “But, Malfoy,” he said, innocently, “I’ve already caught you out. You’re practically purple with annoyance.”

Once again, Malfoy sputtered. His eyes seemed to swivel around in his head and he stared at Harry for several beats before he made an unintelligible noise, then swore loudly and stalked off. Harry laughed, unable to help himself, a sound that only got louder as he watched Malfoy’s back stiffen at the noise. It was wonderful. It was amazing and hilarious and absolutely everything he had wanted. It would have been even better if Harry had managed to avoid the spike of anger or Malfoy stuck around longer, but Harry knew enough to take what he was given. 

Grinning, he said hello to Blighter and allowed himself to be led to the study yet again. It wasn’t quite as bad this time and, when he left, he was sent off with two boxes of cupcakes and without seeing Malfoy again. 

Apparating into Hermione’s kitchen, Harry was not in the least surprised to see Ron sitting there waiting. His eyes fell on the boxes in Harry’s hands and he punched the air. 

“You are a fucking god, mate,” Ron said reverently, jumping towards the cupcakes. 

Harry laughed so hard his ribs hurt. 

Malfoy was conspicuously and notably absent the next time Harry arrived at Malfoy Manor, only four days later. For a moment during the visit, Narcissa looked as if she wanted to say something, her mouth open and head tilted to the side in a gesture Harry realised he recognised from Malfoy. It seemed to pass quickly enough, however, and the whole visit would have been entirely unremarkable if Blighter did not inform him at the door, “Master Draco has asked me to tell you there is a gift in with the cupcakes Mistress Narcissa has sent this time.”

Harry curled his hand protectively around the box and glanced around the hallway as if Malfoy was going to be lurking behind a small table or emerge from behind the curtains. He did not. Blighter looked at him with a blank expression.

“ _Is_ there a gift in them?” he asked. 

Blighter said “I would not call it that exactly, Mr Potter” and then immediately disappeared. Harry frowned at the air where the house elf had been but, frankly, he refused to check the box somewhere where Malfoy could feasibly see him. Throwing his shoulders back, he strolled down the lane and took his time with the walk, apparating once he got past the gates. 

The gift, it turned out, was a cupcake iced in lurid green letters which read _FUCK OFF POTTER._

Harry stared down at it in surprise and then laughed for so long that there were tears in his eyes and Ron emerged from his depression nap to see what was going on. They demolished the cupcake together after rustling up a camera and taking a photograph.

The next time he visited the Malfoy’s, Malfoy himself was there, once more meeting Harry outside the front door. He stood there, watching Harry carefully, hair shining in the late summer sunlight, his arms crossed over his chest. Harry raised a hand in greeting. “Loved the bun, Malfoy,” he said brightly. Malfoy scowled. “It was great — Ron and I split it.” As he passed the other boy, Harry reached out to clap him on the shoulder. 

Malfoy, looking for all the world as if he had no earthly idea how this was his life, scowled even deeper. “You’re not meant to _like_ it. You’re meant to leave us alone.”

“‘Course, Malfoy,” Harry said, still just as cheerful, and he started to walk to the study by himself. He heard Malfoy muttering behind him and that absolutely wonderful sound carried him through the rest of the afternoon and into the next day on a high.

August had nearly melted away by the time Harry found himself alone with Ginny again. The Weasley household had been a constant grounding for the whole family for all their lives; with Fred’s death, it became more so. Bill and Fleur had been there practically every day, sometimes staying over whenever they seemed to deem it necessary. Charlie had apparently taken a leave of absence from work, although nearly every time Harry spoke to him he seemed jumpy, restless, always staring out of windows with a wistful expression on his face. Harry didn’t know how long he was going to stay. 

George was unpredictable. Harry had arrived at the Weasley home one night three weeks ago, slightly merry from after dinner wine, Ron leaning into his side and George had been in the garden, methodically destroying furniture. Ron had gripped Harry’s arm so hard he had been afraid a bone might snap and they had stood watching for a minute before Harry pulled him forward and they stood, one either side of George, as he finished blowing up a wardrobe. 

“Don’t want anything that was his in my room,” George said finally, once the silence had stretched for too long. 

Harry had nodded, muttering “Of course, mate,” and Ron had made a choked sound and dragged George into a hug. Harry had stepped back to let them cry in peace. 

Other times, George seemed to be pretending to be fine. He was making an effort to say Fred’s name as often as possible, face twisting with anger if anyone dared to tell him not to. Harry thought this was good — he’d tried to discuss it with Hermione once, but she’d looked helplessly around and it hadn’t been that fruitful. No one quite knew what to do. Ginny had told him that, over and over, whispered into his ear, scrawled into a letter when they hadn’t seen each other in over a week, said to him matter-of-factly whenever they met for a drink or a sandwich or to press themselves together, Harry holding her while she cried. 

It did not look like Ginny much wanted to cry when they were finally alone again. She lay on her bed, feet kicked up and resting against the baseboard, apparently fully unconcerned that her shorts were muddy and would undoubtedly transfer onto the sheets. Ginny had moved the clothes off the armchair when Harry entered the room and he sat in it, twisting towards the bed so he could watch her. His elbow was propped on the arm of the chair, his chin resting in the palm of his hand. Harry traced Ginny’s profile over and over and waited for her to speak. It looked like she wanted to — she kept shooting him looks out of the corner of her eye, biting and then releasing her lip. 

Finally, she broke the silence. “I think I know what I’m doing this year.”

“Oh yeah?” Harry grinned at her, ignoring the tension within his chest. “That’s great. I know you weren’t sure.”

Ginny let out a bark of laughter which did not sound amused in the slightest. “I don’t think I ever will be a hundred percent sure, you know? I think a part of me still wants to stay here and look after everyone and spend time with you.”

Harry nodded, slowly. The movement was awkward, considering he was still cradling his chin. He kind of wished he hadn’t done it. Ginny turned her face so she was looking directly at him, but she hadn’t yet sat up. Harry searched for an answer and said, “So you’re going somewhere then?”

“I’m not good at taking care of people.” Ginny sat up then, a sharp, energetic movement. She flung her legs around and was perching on the side of the bed, leaning forward towards Harry. “I know everyone thinks I should be — I’m a Weasley! There’s so many of us, surely we can look after each other? — but I’m just not. I never know what to say or what to do. Dad’s so much better at it than me. _Bill_ is much better at it than me and I just walk around here, doing my best impression of a pixie in an antiques shop.”

Harry reached out automatically, grabbing for Ginny’s hands. She let him fold their fingers together. “That’s not true, Gin,” he said softly. “Nobody thinks that.”

Ginny snorted. “No, it is true and I think that. Every time I try to help Mum or talk to her she just cries, you know? And I feel _awful_ , but I can’t stay here and have to do that every single day for the next year or two. I can’t sit around and do nothing and watch George blow things up and talk about Fred like that and just have everyone say that it’s _fine_ because it was his brother and he has to deal with it.” Ginny took a deep, shuddering breath, rubbing her eyes furiously with the heel of her hand. “He’s my brother too and I had a terrible year and I don’t want to take care of people. I’m shit at it.”

Harry stared at her, unsure of what to say. He wasn’t good at this stuff. Being reassuring had never come naturally to him, not when there was a tangle of ugly emotions underneath, not when he could feel his _own_ ugly emotions threatening to press in. He took his own deep, shuddering breath and tightened his grip on Ginny’s hand. Leveraging himself out of the chair, he sat in front of Ginny, on his knees at her feet, and lifted one hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. 

Harry desperately tried to will the right words to come out of his mouth. “You’re not shit at it,” he murmured. “You’re not. You can do anything you want.”

Ginny stared at him blankly and then narrowed her eyes. “But I don’t want to do that, Harry. I don’t _want_ to. Haven’t I done enough?”

Looking up into her face, Harry nodded. “Of course you have, yeah.”

Chuckling weakly, Ginny drew away from him. She covered her face with both hands and shook her head a few times. Harry, unsure what to do, sat backwards. He watched Ginny and wished that this whole conversation was over. He wished that the ugly spike of resentment trying to make its way through him would go away. Ginny had done enough and deserved to get what she wanted; he just had to trust her.

“Harry,” Ginny said finally, drawing her hands away from her face and peering at him, “why aren’t you trying to help me? Or trying to tell me what you think I should do? Why aren’t you doing _anything_ but always sitting there, looking at me like a time turner about to explode?” Her voice had increased in volume, getting more and more high pitched. 

Harry swallowed. “I don’t think you’re about to explode. And I don’t — I don’t want to tell you what to do. I want you to pick what you want. So you can be happy.” To him, it sounded like the right thing to do. Judging by Ginny’s face, she had slightly different ideas. 

“You were perfectly capable of telling me what to do last year,” she said. Said, calmly and levelly, like the shouting a moment before had been a blip. “You were perfectly capable of making decisions over and over again, which didn’t only affect you. So I want your input. I want you to tell me what you want.”

“I don’t,” Harry started and then stopped. His heart was beating in his chest, a hard, steady drumbeat. It felt punishing. He swallowed again and tried to speak once more. “I don’t want to tell you what I want you to do. I want to know what you want to do.”

“Well!” Ginny laughed. “I want to know what you want, Harry. That’s it, right now. I just want you to tell me if you want me, okay?”

Harry scrambled forward, rising up onto his knees and reaching out for Ginny. She grabbed his hand back, but otherwise sat entirely still. “I want you,” Harry said. “I do. I promise. I want to spend time with you, every day, and I want to hear you tell me all about your day and to go flying with you and I want —”

“A friend,” Ginny said, almost sneering. She was gripping tightly to Harry’s hand. It was the same kind of punishment his heart was eeking out to him, a deathgrip that felt like it was going to wreck him. “You want a friend who you can kiss sometimes and not feel bad about it. I don’t want that, Harry. I’ve had enough of waiting around.”

“Ginny, I’m not asking to be your friend or for you to wait or—”

“Yeah, you are.” She had not let go of his hand. Instead, she was gripping it with an intensity only matched by the weight of her gaze “I don’t think you realise that. You’re asking everyone to wait on you right now. I know Kingsley spoke to Ron and you about the Auror training. I know McGonagall talked to you about exams. I _know_ all this, but the only thing you’re doing is visiting Malfoy Manor every other fucking day and drinking with me. That’s not a life, Harry.”

Harry reeled back, grabbing his hand and scooting across the floor. His knees hurt from the wooden floor suddenly and he couldn’t stay on them anymore. He pushed himself to his feet, brow furrowed, and stared down at Ginny. His lungs were burning. When he spoke, it hurt. “I have a life! I’m not visiting the Malfoy’s every other day — it’s just a laugh, it’s just to wind him up, it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.” Ginny was on her feet now too, staring up at him with her jaw set. “It’s the only thing you’re doing. And I’m not going to just sit around and let that happen to me too. I’ve got stuff I want to do and stuff I need to do and if you want to stay stuck then that’s your prerogative but I won’t be doing it with you.”

Harry sunk a hand through his hair and shook his head, pulling harshly at it. Ginny did not budge. She just kept looking at him. He thought he should have been angrier than he was, even though the anger roared in his ears, made him feel unsteady. He thought everything she was saying should sound like a new accusation, but a slippery voice in the back of his head wound itself free and whispered in his ear _she’s right, you know. She’s right and you’re useless._

Harry gulped down a breath and pulled at his hair again. Ginny’s gaze flickered up to his hands and then back. They kept staring at each other, both of them breathing harshly, and then Harry heard himself say, “If that’s what you want then.”

Ginny burst into peals of laughter and turned away. “Go the fuck away, Harry.”

Harry hesitated for only a second and then went the fuck away.

It was really icing on the cake that Harry had arranged another meeting at Malfoy Manor for the day after his argument with Ginny. He hadn’t told Hermione about it when he got home, instead fixing himself a massive mug of tea, and retreating to the spare room which had become his. He stayed in bed for most of the night, slinking down into the kitchen only to fix himself some toast that he burned because he wasn’t paying attention. The fight had felt like a break up, rending both of them even further apart, and Harry thought the appropriate reaction was to lie in bed, half-dressed, staring at the ceiling. 

Hermione obviously decided to let him have some space because he barely saw her until right before he was due to go to the Malfoy’s. She met him as he came down the stairs, a cup of tea in her hands and a worried look on her face. “Are you okay?” 

Harry shrugged, mustering a smile as he wandered over to where he had kicked off his shoes the night before and shoved his feet into them. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. That was just a very long depression nap yesterday.” Hermione was clearly trying to sound normal, her voice lilting in the way it usually did when she was teasing him, but the tone was not quite right. Harry didn’t look at her as he laced his shoes up. 

“I’m just not feeling that great. It’s nothing. Probably getting a cold, it’s starting to cool down outside.” He sat up and then stood. Hermione still looked worried. He knew she would; it wasn’t in her nature to let things go. So, Harry tried on a reassuring grin which clearly wasn’t that reassuring if the look Hermione gave him was anything to go by. “I’m fine, Hermione, honestly.”

“If you’re not, you certainly don’t have to go to the Malfoy’s again. No one is going to think less of you for dropping whatever it is you’re doing now.”

“Annoying Malfoy and trying to find out if Narcissa Malfoy is a robot,” Harry said, with the ease of someone who had repeated that exact sentence up to two dozen times. Hermione’s mouth quirked upwards. “And like I said, it’s fine. If I was really sick, I’d stay. But I’m not. I’ll see you later.”

Hermione nodded and said goodbye as Harry grabbed his jacket and apparated to the gates of Malfoy Manor.

The gates sprung open, as usual, and Harry stared at them. He stood there, staring, for a long time, trying to regulate his breathing, trying to remind himself what it was to feel normal. He knew part of what Ginny had said was the truth, but that didn’t make it the whole truth. He wanted her: he just didn’t know how to live as someone who wanted people, who could have them, touch them and taste them and take them. He’d never got to do that before, not properly, not without the stark and certain knowledge that Voldemort was going to appear again. 

“God damn it,” Harry muttered, kicking at the ground with his feet. 

“Are you quite finished with whatever it is you’re doing?” 

Harry jumped and his head shot up. Malfoy stood a few feet in front of him, head tilted to one side, peering at Harry like an exotic bird. Harry couldn’t tell if Malfoy was wearing one of his too-large pirate shirts again. “What?” he asked, dumbly.

Malfoy sighed and gestured to the gates. “They’ve been open for about ten minutes. We’ve been notified. Are you finished with your brooding?”

Harry frowned, straightening up from his slouch. “I am not brooding,” he snapped.

“That’s what it looked like to me.” Malfoy shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me if you’re brooding, Potter, but if you want it to have it’s full impact, shall I call the _Prophet_?”

“Don’t be a dick, Malfoy.”

Malfoy pulled a face. “That sounds like an unrealistic ask. Are you coming in or are you just going to stand there, like a completely gormless boor?” 

Scowling darkly at Malfoy, Harry nonetheless stepped forward. The gates barely waited for him to pass before they slammed closed, coming so close to his arm it felt like a reprimand. Harry looked at Malfoy for a moment and then started to walk up the lane. Malfoy wavered behind him for a moment before catching up, matching his steps to Harry’s.

“I don’t want to hear it, Malfoy,” Harry warned. 

“I don’t care what you want,” Malfoy said, cheerfully. “In fact, I am making it my mission in life to do the opposite of what you want.”

“What’s the point of that?”

Harry turned his head to look at Malfoy, so he saw the way Malfoy’s eyes glittered when he spoke. “I don’t know, Potter, but you deliberately ignored my request to stay away, so I figure I’ll return the favour and ignore everything you say.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t.”

“Too bad!” Malfoy sounded cheerful, arms swinging around him. “It’s not like I’ve a lot else to entertain me here.”

It was one of the first times that Malfoy had mentioned his house arrest, in one way or another. As far as Harry could tell, Malfoy spent the day swanning around in clothes that didn’t fit him, wearing shoes roughly half the time, picking at cupcakes and stalking people down lanes. Harry decided to tell him (most of) that.

Malfoy laughed, the sound cruel in the hazy summer afternoon. “You’re one to talk about stalking, Potter. The rest of us — that is my mother and I — are trying to keep ourselves occupied.”

“With me?”

Malfoy stopped walking and looked at him with the kind of expression that clearly said ‘I believe that a hippogriff has kicked you in the head multiple times.’ “No. With _anything._ You’re hardly special, Potter, no matter what anyone says.”

Harry studied him for a moment. Malfoy’s jaw looked tight and the bags under his eyes weren’t quite as prominent as the first time Harry had visited Malfoy Manor. He supposed he looked less skeletal, as if Malfoy had slowly started to eat, but there was still something about him that looked thoroughly different than Harry remembered him from school. Harry hated it: he didn’t like mysteries he felt he couldn’t scratch away at and solve. “Okay,” he said. “So other people visit?”

Malfoy looked away and then started to walk, picking up his pace. His legs were longer than Harry’s but Harry had been friends with Ron for long enough that he caught up fairly quickly. “We have visitors coming out of our ears. Stop talking to me now. I liked you better when you were brooding.”

“So you liked me earlier?”

“ _No._ ” Malfoy sounded disgusted. “It’s a figure of speech. Go find Mother yourself, I’ve things to attend to.” Malfoy immediately took off now they had reached the top of the lane, through the front door and heading down one of the corridors without looking back. Harry hesitated for a moment: he wanted to know what was down that corridor, he wanted to follow Malfoy and find out who was visiting, he wanted to know why he looked like a pirate. 

Instead, Harry rubbed a hand over his mouth and trooped up the stairs to find Narcissa reading a book, sitting in one of the armchairs. She looked up as he entered, a smile on her face, and stood even though Harry tried to tell her not to. 

“Harry, it’s lovely to see you again.” Narcissa set the book aside, gesturing for Harry to take a seat. He sank into the sofa gratefully and a moment later a cup of tea, merrily steaming, was in front of him. He grinned at it. 

He did not like Narcissa Malfoy. It wasn’t as if they were friends. Sometimes, Harry still looked at her and felt cold and alone, remembering the shock of air when he woke up from King’s Cross. He usually left after, feeling shaky and walked around the estate before he let himself back into Hermione’s house. Sometimes, he barely talked to Narcissa, sitting in near silence as they drank tea, exchanged mild pleasantries and, on one occasion, let Narcissa read aloud from the book she had been reading. It had been about the DMLE, an account from an infamous Auror who worked in the department from the 1870s to the early 1930s, pioneering structural change.

They had not discussed it afterwards in any depth. Harry was never quite sure what to say around her and they didn’t have a great deal of interests that collided. Occasionally, when they were sitting in silence, Harry wondered whether he was taking annoying Malfoy too far. Every time the thought occurred to him it was swiftly followed by an agreement in a voice that sounded vaguely like Hermione and Harry usually just tried to shut it up by feeding himself. 

Today, it appeared as if Narcissa Malfoy had something she wished to discuss. She was sitting only slightly forward but watching him intently, the cup of tea floating by her elbow untouched. She waited until after Harry had drank some of his own before saying, “You will, of course, forgive me for asking, but I am curious about your returning visitations.”

Harry blinked at her. He thought about being smart and telling Narcissa he hadn’t heard a question in anything she said and then thought better of it. He was trying to be polite. “Curious how?”

“Curious, because I would not consider us friends.” Narcissa smiled, as if to soften the blow of sharp words said in a sharp tone. “I understand why you accepted the first invitation and why you came back, but why do you keep requesting tea?”

Harry shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. He was keenly aware of how much Narcissa loved her son and, as he stared into the surface of his tea, he realised ‘I decided to do it to wind your son up’ wasn’t going to go over too well with her. Glancing up, he cleared his throat. “I thought it would be nice.”

“Nice?” Narcissa repeated, an eyebrow raising. She moved a hand to nudge away the teacup which had started to gently come closer. “Mr Potter, I would ask you not to insult either of us.”

That startled a laugh out of Harry. He looked at her, slightly bewildered, eyes round and searching. There was no other way. He didn’t have it in him to come up with a plausible excuse, not when he’d slept so little and spent so long replaying one argument for the past twenty-four hours. “Malfoy told me not to come back. I mean, your son. Draco.” Harry frowned. “You know what your son’s name is.”

Narcissa stared at him. Harry really, really wished he could read her. “You’re visiting because Draco told you not to?” Harry nodded; Narcissa made a thoughtful noise. “I see. That’s extraordinarily petty. Have a macaroon, Harry.”

Obediently, Harry reached out and took a macaroon. Narcissa watched him eat it and neither of them spoke. It was intensely uncomfortable. 

Swallowing down crumbs, Harry said, “Also, it was something to do.” Unfortunately, it sounded completely sincere but then he supposed it was sincere. Visiting _was_ something to do and at the Malfoy’s, at least, no one was trying to congratulate Harry or tell him how grateful they were (much, anyway). No one was trying to draw him into reminiscing about the dead. 

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Narcissa said, after a moment. She finally paid attention to the teacup and took a sip before replacing it. None of her movements were dainty but they were all elegant, a lifetime of aristocratic manners apparent in every one of them. A part of Harry envied it, even though he thought it was ridiculous at the same time. He recalled with some horror his third visit when he set the cup down too forcefully and it had shattered. 

“Harry, I should like to propose something. It’s quite simple, so there’s no need to look so alarmed.” Harry immediately tried to look nonchalant, reclining in his seat, dropping his shoulders. “I propose that if you are here to find something to do, then we can find something to do. If you are here to annoy Draco, I ask that you do so far away from me.” She took another sip of tea. “We are not getting on at the moment.”

The smoothly related truth startled Harry. His fingers twitched around the teacup and some of the tea sloshed over the side onto his hand. Harry looked at it morosely, knowing he couldn’t lick it away. Instead he grabbed for a napkin, dabbing at his hand and looking at the floor in the hopes he hadn’t spilled any. “You aren’t getting on?”

“Not particularly,” Narcissa said, voice devoid of any inflection. “House arrest is rarely fun for those placed under it and Draco is so young. Being cooped up does not agree with him.”

Harry tried not to say he had noticed. “I noticed that.” _God damn it._

Narcissa’s mouth quirked upwards, just barely. “Yes. Draco’s emotional control is not the best at the moment.” Feeling extremely kind, Harry decided not to tell her that Malfoy very rarely seemed in control. He nodded instead, which he felt was the perfect neutral response. “I don’t suppose he would mind terribly if you would talk to him. I heard him talking to one of the ghosts the other day and it upset me greatly.”

“One of the ghosts?” Harry sat up straighter.

“Yes. I think it may have been Peregrine, the fool.” Noticing Harry’s look, Narcissa said, “Most of the old wizarding home’s have ghosts, Harry. Malfoy Manor has been here a very long time and undergone a period of extreme upheaval in the recent months.”

“That’s one way to put it, I guess,” Harry said, shoving the rest of a macaroon in his mouth. Narcissa inclined her head. “I haven’t really minded coming for tea.”

“I haven’t really minded having you over, Harry.” Even though he watched her closely, Harry could not tell if Narcissa was lying. “However, please do not feel like you have to sit here and be polite and quiet. It will do neither of us any good and I find that house arrest is quite dull enough without having a near stranger sitting across from me.”

Harry nodded a few times and then said, “Okay.” And then: “Do you wanna hear about how my girlfriend dumped me then?” And then, he frowned and looked down at the plate of macaroons in betrayal. Perhaps they had been laced with something.

Narcissa laughed. “No, that’s quite all right. You don’t need to share such things with me.”

Relieved, Harry let out an exhale which rippled strongly across the surface of his tea, turning it into a mini-ocean. “Thank God.”

He did not tell her how Ginny had dumped him but conversation was slightly less stilted afterwards and Harry felt moderately better when he stood to leave. 

Better, until Harry exited the study to find Malfoy lounging against one of the walls. It was such a blatant display of eavesdropping that Harry actually paused and stared at him for a whole ten seconds before he threw his head back and laughed. Malfoy looked affronted and pushed himself off from the wall, scowling at Harry. Harry noticed he’d rolled the ends of his trousers and his sleeves up: he deliberately did not look for the Dark Mark. 

“You would be a terrible spy,” Harry said, finally. “Did anyone ever tell you that?” 

“No, of course not. I was a Slytherin.” Malfoy straightened himself, tugging at the collar of his shirt and then, clearly deciding not to bother pretending he hadn’t been eavesdropping said, “I heard your girlfriend dumped you.”

“Oh, did you?” Harry asked. “When did I tell you that again?”

“You must have forgotten you were muttering about it while you were brooding outside my gates,” Malfoy said, airily. He folded his arms and scowled again; it took a moment for Harry to realise it was supposed to be an impression of him, which made him scowl, which made Malfoy smile. Harry’s scowl deepened. 

“I’ve told you already I wasn’t brooding.”

“Nonsense. Who am I going to tell if you admit it?” 

“A ghost, apparently.”

It was not the right thing to say. Harry saw the moment Malfoy’s face froze, the blank look that slotted onto his face. It was only once it was there that Harry realised how animated Malfoy had looked only moments before. He cleared his throat and said, “Your mum was telling me there’s ghosts here.”

“There’s ghosts everywhere, Potter.” Malfoy looked at him like he thought he was daft. “I’ll have to be careful you don’t sneak up on me talking to one.”

The words hit like a brick, huge and heavy. Harry’s mouth turned to ash and something ugly twisted in the pit of his stomach. He swallowed, his throat bobbing, but Malfoy looked supremely unconcerned and when Harry opened his mouth to speak he literally waved him away. “Don’t go on, I don’t want to hear it.” His eyes were bright as he said, “I want to hear all about your little break up.”

“I’m not telling you that.” 

“Why not?” Malfoy’s eyes were still bright and he was smiling, a cruel twist to his mouth. “We could become confidantes. Wouldn’t that be the story of a millennium?” 

Harry took a second to ponder every last life choice which had led him to this moment. “You are,” he said loudly, “the absolute bane of my existence.”

“Please stop talking so dirty, Potter, these portraits can’t bear it.” Malfoy turned a beaming look onto some of the paintings around them, mostly filled with old Malfoy relatives. For the most part, they looked supremely unconcerned with the conversation happening around them. The only one paying attention was a man, mostly bald and very large, wearing a pink coat, surrounded by hounds. 

“I would thank you, young sir, to not suppose what I can and cannot bear!” the portrait shouted. 

Harry pointed at it. “He would thank you!”

Malfoy stared at him and then laughed, a gentle exhale of air. He turned and started to walk. Harry had no idea why he followed. “Potter, in case you haven’t noticed, or in case my mother failed to share it with you, we don’t actually have visitors falling out of the sky. People do not want to come here. I have exactly zero interest in becoming your confidante but for the love of Merlin you could at least provide a prisoner with some kind of conversation. You grunted at me last week. Grunted! It was an affront to all of society.” Malfoy’s words got faster as he walked and he matched his pace to his conversation. Harry determinedly kept up, following down a corridor he had never seen before. They reached a door, large and heavy, a gleaming dark walnut. Malfoy flung it open and they were in a garden. 

Harry blinked at it. Unlike the front of the house, this garden had clearly been well cared for. There was a path winding its way towards the centre and the grass was all the same level. Flowers bloomed, a vast array of colours: flowers which looked like large purple balls, huge purple and white daisies, roses in various shades winding their way throughout the garden. In one corner were a group of lilies, clustered around a pond and there was a greenhouse against a wall. There were so many flowers that Harry could not have begun to identify and he stared at it for a second, frozen in surprise. Malfoy either did not notice or did not care. He walked through the garden towards the back wall, where there was a gate. Harry took another minute to stare at the cacophony of colour in front of him and then took off. 

“Where are you going?”

“To the garden.”

“This is a garden.” Harry waved behind him. “Flowers. A pond. Seven thousand acres.”

“Potter, don’t be ridiculous. I simply can’t talk to you without some proper fresh air to clear my head.” Malfoy did not look at him once. Instead, he wrenched open the heavy gate in the back wall and, completely unable to stay still, Harry followed him. 

If it was proper fresh air that Malfoy wanted, it was clear that _this_ section of the garden was just right for it. The ground rolled out beneath Harry’s feet, grass that was lush and green and carried out onto the horizon. There were stables not too far off. The sight of them nearly made Harry feel a bit ill. If he had to watch Malfoy show off by talking about his prize horses he was going to turn back and vomit in the rose bushes. 

He decided Malfoy needed to know that. “Malfoy,” Harry said, slowly and clearly, waiting until the other boy looked at him before he continued to speak. “If you’ve brought me here to show me your award winning horses, I’ll throw up all over your shoes and then into every single one of those rose bushes. You shouldn’t test me either because I ate my body weight in macaroons like ten minutes ago.”

Malfoy pulled a face. “Don’t be so disgusting, Potter,” he drawled. “I told you. I’m here because talking to you gives me a headache and I thought that, if we were outside in the fresh air, it might combat some of your natural headacheness.” 

Skipping over the fact that Malfoy was making up words now, Harry snorted. “Talking to _you_ gives _me_ a headache,” he said maturely. Malfoy just nodded, as if he had fully expected that. 

“I’ve decided to say thank you,” Malfoy announced, loudly, and sounding as stiff as a corpse. “I recognise and appreciate that this should have come before now, but the atmosphere in the Manor really is oppressive and I decided I didn’t want to cope with it.” A brief pause and then he added reluctantly, “And you startled me.”

Because he didn’t know what else to say Harry said, “I was invited.”

Malfoy breathed in a way that could only be described as irritably. “Yes, I know. I just thought you weren’t going to come. I told Mother all morning you weren’t and then you did and I looked like a knob.”

“Well,” Harry said, kindly. “At least you don’t need a lot of help with that.”

Malfoy looked at Harry and Harry realised he looked both helpless and amused. Helpless, amused and slightly lost, like he’d wandered out onto a ledge and didn’t know what he was doing. Harry realised he’d seen that look on this boy’s face again and shifted his gaze to the distance. He cleared his throat. 

“Anyway, I wanted to say thank you. I don’t want you to think I don’t know that you didn’t have to do it. And I don’t care why you did it, and I don’t want to get into some huge moral argument or to hear your morally amazing and righteous justifications for it, I just wanted to say thank you so I could do it once and get it off my chest and never have to say it again, ever.” Malfoy said everything in a rush, as if he really was dying to say it and never have to repeat it. It was almost impressive. Harry had heard a lot of rushed talking, but never in the kind of cut glass voice which meant every syllable was still clearly uttered. Perhaps it was a skill they only taught properly posh people. 

“Malfoy, I can assure you I never once have acted thinking ‘boy I can’t wait for Malfoy to congratulate me.’”

Malfoy looked vaguely ill. “This is really hurting me,” he said, almost moaning. “I know that, Potter, but it would greatly alleviate my burden if you could simply say ‘yes, I accept your gratitude and will bear this nobly, as I bear everything’ and we can be done with it.”

Harry made solemn eye contact with Malfoy. “Yes, I accept your gratitude and will bear this nobly, as I bear everything.”

Malfoy exhaled, the kind of breath which let tension leave his body. Harry watched his shoulders with interest as Malfoy rolled them. “Brilliant. That’s perfect. Now, if you could agree to stop visiting just to annoy me that would be wonderful. I think it makes my mother sad.”

Harry found himself laughing, head tilted down so the laughter hit the earth. He raised his shoulders almost to his ears, hands sunk deep in his pockets and thought about agreeing. It would be so easy. He didn’t even _like_ the Malfoy’s and he had no earthly reason to keep coming back. Except, he could smell the scent of the flowers from the Malfoy’s garden even through the wall, the sweet scents mingling with something heavier, muskier, and he was at least not lying on his back, replaying an argument he could not change or months spent living in a tent, afraid of his life. He wasn’t lying in bed and remembering how it had felt to die. 

It sounded ridiculous, even in his own head. Harry did not understand it. He stared at the blades of grass, squinting at them to make every one stand out in his vision, and then lifted his head. “I think the fact she said you aren’t getting on is what makes her sad.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “You really can’t help yourself,” he said. “It’s ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.”

“Sure.” Harry shrugged. “I’m ridiculous. But that’s what she essentially said.”

Malfoy lifted a finger and pointed at Harry. They were standing close enough that the tip of his finger just about missed Harry’s chest. Harry focused on it. “You don’t know anything about my relationship with my mother and I’d thank you to keep out of it.”

“Put your finger down.” Malfoy did, slowly. Harry nodded and said, “You don’t know anything about my relationship with Ginny and you were dying for me to tell you all about it.”

“That’s because I’m bored,” Malfoy said, easy as anything. “I’m bored and I’m dying for anyone to talk to. As you can see, Potter, I’m quite desperate because I’m talking to you and neither one of us have thrown a punch yet. I’ve decided to call this my year of personal growth.”

Harry stared at Malfoy, who in turn was staring out across the fields. His eyes looked unfocused and, despite what he was actually saying, Malfoy looked sad. It was in his eyes, how shuttered they looked, and the way his mouth pulled itself down, and the heavy lines which had appeared across his forehead. Malfoy wasn’t looking at anything in particular, instead looking into the distance, with the fierce look of someone who wanted to run towards it. 

It made Harry feel unmoored to watch him. 

Rubbing a hand over his mouth, Harry said, first through his fingers and then clearer, “Well, I can come and talk to you, I guess.” Malfoy’s gaze snapped away from the horizon to Harry. He looked perplexed and wrongfooted; he even took a step backwards. Harry quickly started to speak. “I don’t mean you you. I mean your mum. Too. Maybe Blighter, but I don’t think he likes me and I can’t tell if it’s because you keep getting him to ice _fuck off, Potter_ on cupcakes or not.”

A smile stole across Malfoy’s face, smug and delighted. “Blighter doesn’t like you and it’s because he’s a good boy, who listens to everything I say. I have said a lot of very negative things about you.”

Harry huffed to disguise the thrill of laughter that threatened to spill out. “I’m shocked.”

“I’m a shocking kind of person,” Malfoy said grandly. They lapsed into silence when Malfoy finally broke when he said, looking at Harry now, “All right, Potter.”

Harry, suddenly unsure of himself, grinned and sunk his hands back into his pockets. They stood together without saying another word for a long time. Harry didn’t leave for another fifteen minutes.

Ron did not stay over at Hermione’s that night, or the next one. Harry asked Hermione about it as they shuffled around each other in the bright August morning and Hermione shrugged helplessly. “George wanted to go fishing,” she said. 

Harry, clutching his mug of tea like a lifeline, nodded as if that was a perfectly normal thing. He supposed it could be, for some people. Maybe George had always secretly liked fishing. Maybe it was something that Fred and George had done. It was hard to know, so he just accepted it, and waited for Ron to come back.

When he arrived, two days later, he looked tired and drawn, like he hadn’t had much sleep. Standing in the doorway to the kitchen, he lifted a hand in a wave and slunk across the tiles. “Hey, Harry,” he said, as he reached for Hermione and pulled her into him, mouth descending into her curls. Harry tried not to look too closely as Ron’s eyes fluttered closed and Hermione's body curved towards him, her arms reaching to wrap around Ron’s waist. They swayed together, in the middle of the kitchen, Ron breathing into Hermione’s hair. 

Harry decided to get all of them a glass of wine, deliberately disappearing into the utility room for a few minutes to give them some privacy.

When he emerged, clutching a bottle of white wine, Ron was sitting at the table, boots kicked off by the back door, and Hermione had taken the chair beside him. They both cheered as Harry lifted the glasses in front of them and started to pour.

“Do you wanna talk about it, mate?” Harry asked, sliding Ron’s glass to him. Ron’s answer was a slow shake of his head. 

“Not tonight. Maybe another time. It wasn’t that bad, it was just — it was just long.” Ron sighed and rolled his shoulders like he was working out a particularly bad knot. “It’s making me tired to think about it.”

“The wine won’t help with that,” Hermione said.

“I’ll drink to that.” Ron grinned and lifted his glass, tapping it against Hermione’s, then doing the same with Harry’s.

They sat, letting the soft strains of the radio station’s jazz drift towards them, filling the silence. It was comfortable and quiet and Harry felt content. Running a finger around the rim of his wine glass, he knew he was going to break it.

“Ginny and I decided to call it quits,” Harry said. He hadn’t meant to use that phrase but it was out of his mouth before he had considered it too deeply. He looked up from tracing around his glass to the matching expressions on his friend’s faces: surprise, concern, affection. It made his throat feel like it was closing over. “You don’t have to look so concerned.”

“Oh, Harry!” Hermione cried, flinging out her hand to reach for his. Harry let her pull it towards him. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Harry shrugged. “It happens.”

“What happens?” Ron asked. “I mean, what happened. I thought you were going to try and make a go of it.”

Harry felt hot under the joint weight of his friend’s gazes, embarrassment making his neck warm. “We were talking about what she wanted to do next year and she told me that I clearly didn’t want her.” He scratched at his neck. “I tried to tell her she was wrong but it just didn’t go right. And she told me she thought I was stuck and she didn’t want to be. So....yeah.” Trailing off, Harry took a large gulp of wine before he looked across the table.

Hermione still held his hand, warm and clasped between hers, and chewed nervously on her bottom lip. Ron studied Harry calmly, his hand wrapped loosely around the stem of the wine glass. He looked tired and sad, but he gave Harry a half-smile.

“If you talked to her again in a couple of days, she might change her mind,” Ron said. “We always used to say that about her. She’s always thought she knew what was right straight away.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Yeah, I mean maybe.”

Ron kept studying him. “You don’t have to, though. Not if you don’t want to, or if you think she’s right.”

“Of course she’s not right!” Hermione interrupted. She glanced between Ron and Harry, pulling away one of her hands from clasping Harry’s to gesture. “You told me that you were excited to get back together!”

“Yeah, I was.” Harry squeezed Hermione’s hand, hard, and she looked at him. He made a face at her and saw her visibly relax, just a little. “I was excited, but I don’t know if she’s wrong either. I haven’t really thought about it and Ginny obviously has. She just kept asking me what I wanted and I realised I didn’t know. I didn’t really know and I hadn’t been thinking about it at all.”

Ron nodded, slowly. “So are you thinking about it now?”

“I guess so. Or I guess I’m going to try. I don’t want to be stuck.”

“You’re not,” Hermione said, still righteously indignant. “Not while Ron and I are around anyway. As if I’d ever let you be stuck.” She snorted. From his vantage point, Harry could see the depth of affection in the look Ron gave her. Ron didn’t even try to mask it, letting it shine through everything. Harry looked away and tried not to want that.

“She’s right, Harry. If you need anything, we’ve got your back.” Ron took another sip of his drink. “But if I go home tomorrow and Ginny’s crying her heart out, you know I’m gonna have to come back here and beat you up.”

Harry laughed then nodded solemnly, as Hermione dug her elbow into Ron’s ribs. “I completely understand. I’ll even let you break my glasses, if you want.”

“I would want,” Ron said, just as solemn and serious. “You’re a good mate that way. Anticipating my needs.”

“You two are so weird.” Hermione frowned. She let Harry’s hand drop finally, taking a sip of her wine. Her eyes were sharp and still watching Harry. Harry could tell this was not the last time they were going to talk about it but if he got his way it wouldn’t be for several long, long days. 

“Right!” Hermione said the next morning, plopping down across from Harry at the table. He blinked at her blearily, barely awake, while Hermione looked like she’d been up for hours. Her hair was still wrapped up in silk and she was still in pyjamas but her eyes were bright with the kind of fevered light that Harry remembered from her obsessive nights spent trawling through the library at Hogwarts whenever she needed to know something. She grinned at Harry, who decided that his best course of action was going to be to continue to eat his eggs. 

“So, I’ve been thinking and I think we should make you a list.” Hermione grinned again, setting paper and quills down on the table. “Once you’re finished your breakfast, obviously, or you can just dictate it and I can write it down. Whatever you think is best!”

Harry chewed his eggs slowly and swallowed. He stared at Hermione and then closed his eyes for a moment. “What kind of a list?”

“A list of the things you think you’re stuck over. Then we can work on it.” Hermione was practically beaming now. “It’ll be a new project!”

“I didn’t know we had an old project.”

At that moment, Ron walked into the kitchen, yawning and stretching, scratching his stomach. “The old project was killing You Know Who, mate.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right.” Harry took a sip of his orange juice. Hermione had started to sort the quills into order of size. It was really too early for this. “Hermione, do you want to start the list and then I’ll just contribute?”

“Of course not!” Hermione looked genuinely shocked at the suggestion. “It has to be personal. This is all about you. I already know what I’m doing and I found making lists infinitely helpful. There’s something soothing about it.”

Harry contemplated telling her that there was something soothing about getting to eat breakfast without list-making but ultimately decided against it. Instead he smeared some of his boiled egg over his toast and slowly started to chew. Ron flung himself into the chair beside him, turning beseeching eyes onto Harry.

“No,” Harry said firmly. “Get your own eggs.”

Ron transferred his gaze to Hermione who rolled her eyes, snorted, and then stared at Harry.

“No,” Harry told her. “I can’t. I’ve eggs to eat.”

“You’re nearly finished.”

“I’m thinking of having two breakfasts.” Harry pointed at the fridge. “There’s bacon in there. It’s calling my name.”

“Oi no, it’s got my name on it,” Ron said. He stood quickly, making his way over to the fridge. He was extravagantly careful with the appliances still, touching the fridge as if it could choose to attack at any moment. Harry and Hermione had once sworn they heard him ask it not to give him an electricity shock. He was slightly better now, but even through the sleep clinging to him Ron was tentative with the fridge. He was far less tentative with the frying pan, which he slammed down on the hob, eagerly slathering it in oil. Harry grinned at his back.

“Well, Ron’s eating the bacon now, so that means we can talk about our list.” Hermione sat straight in the chair and folded her hands together, watching him. “Once you’ve finished.”

Harry sighed and then started to eat his breakfast properly, aware there was no use prolonging the inevitable. Hermione pottered about, making herself some tea, refreshing his, murmuring to Ron by the sink as he finished making his bacon. Once Harry felt that he couldn’t put her off anymore, he said, “Right. Let’s go. Where are we starting?”

“At the beginning,” Hermione said, managing to sound prim despite the fact she was in her pyjamas and it was before eight in the morning. “So, we want to look at where you are versus where you could be. Or where you have your offers to be, of course. We’ll put as much data on the list as possible and we can work from there.”

Harry nodded, slowly. “Right. Well, where I am is in your kitchen and where I want to be is—”

Hermione held up a hand. “Harry, be serious.”

Harry looked at her and then nodded. While Ron finished preparing his breakfast and then as he wolfed it down, they drew up a list — the offer from McGonagall for private tutoring, or to return to Hogwarts if he wished. The offer from Kingsley, backed by Head Auror Robards, to join the DMLE. The offers he had received everywhere he turned, owls pouring in and people clasping his hands and telling him that they’d be honoured if he would join their training programme/fine establishment. Some of them Hermione frankly refused to put down. She looked particularly stern as she scored out “Tattoo artist” after Harry scribbled it. 

“You are _not_ that much of an artist, Harry, and no one wants you to draw on your skin.” Harry pretended to be affronted and she shrugged, citing tough love. 

By the time Hermione was finished they had a sizable list. It was surrounded by smaller lists, branching off, smaller goals. He told her he wanted to fix up Grimmauld and she added it; he told her he wanted to visit the goblins, unofficially, and she added it; he told her he wanted to get his hair cut and she added that too, approaching every addition with the same solemnity. 

Harry stared at it and sighed. “I don’t feel any more sorted.”

Ron reached over and clapped him on the shoulder. “Me either, mate. You’re wrecking my head.”

“Ronald, you aren’t helping,” Hermione hissed. 

“What are you going to do?” Harry asked, turning towards Ron. 

“Mate,” Ron said, his expression making it clear he thought he was being asked a daft question, “I’m gonna join the Aurors.”

Harry sighed again and put his head in his hands. He thought about not doing it for a brief second, aware that it was dramatic, but it was half past eight, he had been up forever, his girlfriend had broken up with him, he had no idea what he was doing and his sleep had been punctuated with nightmares so bad he’d woken with a scream lodged in his throat. He felt entitled to a moment of drama. 

“It’s not that bad, mate.” Ron clapped him on the back. “I mean, picture it again: the two of us, partners in wands. Ronald B. Weasley and Harmond J. Potter, esquires, Aurors.”

Harry lifted his head. “My name’s not Harmond. That’s not a name.”

Ron shook his head. “Shut up, Harmond. You’re ruining this for me.”

Laughing, Harry said, “What? Ruining what? Making up names.”

“I was picturing our business cards.” Ron’s grin was broad and slow, his warm, lazy good humour shining across his face. “They were beautiful. My name looked practically new and innovative beside Harmond.”

“I hate you so much.”

Ron reached over to ruffle Harry’s hair. “Nah. You’re an awful liar. Come on, I wanna go for a fly about. Maybe it’ll clear your head.”

Now that Harry had told the Malfoy’s he was not going to keep coming back purely to annoy Malfoy, it left him at something of a loss. It seemed even weirder now to send an owl and request tea. Every time Harry found himself about to do it he promptly found something else to do. Hermione’s list meant that he had, in fact, too much to consider. 

The easiest thing on it to do was get a haircut, so he did, and then he made himself visit Gringotts. It was exactly as painful a visit as he had hoped but once he had exited the bank at least it was _over_. It was over and he was papped with his fresh haircut, which led to a front page feature. “Has the Boy Who Lived, Saviour Twice Over, Got a New Girlfriend???” Ron crowed with glee when he saw it, reading the article in the kind of bombastic voice he had perfected at Hogwarts. Harry-in-the-papers scowled out at all of them and Harry stared mournfully at his picture self. 

He woke up one Sunday, in the dying days of August, and over breakfast received three owls: one from Kingsley; one from Ginny; one from the Malfoy’s.

The three owls practically pushed each other over to get into Hermione’s kitchen, depositing their post and taking flight almost immediately. Harry was too relieved to realise no one expected an immediate reply to feel overly concerned about any of the owls, trying to ignore the way his stomach knotted once he recognised Ginny’s handwriting. 

Kingsley asked if he had arrived at a decision yet; Ginny wanted to tell him she was going back to Hogwarts and wanted to know if she would see him at the train station; the Malfoy owl was from Malfoy, male, nineteen. Harry was so surprised he dropped the letter and then looked quickly around to make sure that Hermione wasn’t there to see him behaving bizarrely.

> _Dear Potter,_
> 
> _Blighter may poison your cupcakes next time._
> 
> _Regards,_
> 
> _Draco Malfoy._

Harry stared at it for a moment and then, despite himself, started to laugh. Twenty minutes later, he found himself standing outside the Malfoy Manor gates. For the first time, they did not immediately open for him. 

It took about ten minutes for the gates to open and Malfoy was standing just around the first bend in the lane, looking confused and surprised and as if he hated being both of those things. 

“I didn’t ask you to come,” was the first thing out of his mouth. 

Harry lifted the letter, which he had crumpled up and shoved into his pocket just in case. A burst of smugness exploded through him at the look on Malfoy’s face. “I don’t know Malfoy,” he said, casually. “This is definitely an invitation.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Malfoy said, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “It specifically mentions _poisoning._ I don’t know how many invitations you receive that usually do that, Potter, but I would hope you had enough sense to refuse them.”

Harry grinned. “I usually do, but I was feeling adventurous today.”

There was a beat and then Malfoy said, “Yes. I can tell that by your outfit.”

Harry looked down at himself. He had dressed quickly, with little regard to what he was wearing. It hadn’t occurred to him that it would matter: they were only the Malfoy’s and Harry didn’t care about impressing either of them. His t-shirt had been lifted from the end of his bed, an eye-searingly bright yellow with a huge pelican in baby blue across the chest, something he had picked up at a gig Hermone and he had gone to. It was hideous but he had loved it. Harry shrugged. “I thought it would brighten up your day.”

“I think it might knock me out.”

“Either way, one of us wins, right?” Harry smiled widely and Malfoy’s mouth twitched, just slightly.

“Potter, I might have to ask Blighter to poison you just for assaulting my eyes like that.”

“I’ll have written evidence that you attacked me, of course,” Harry said. He walked closer to Malfoy, who blinked in surprise, and then hastily covered it by looking away. They started to walk up the lane. “It’d be kind of sloppy.”

“Ah, yes.” Malfoy nodded. “All of my misdeeds up until this point have been so clever and untraceable. They’ll be shocked at this break with tradition.”

Harry snorted. “That’s it exactly.” They were quiet for a moment, the conversation slipping away from them. Harry looked at his feet moving forward and noticed Malfoy had cuffed his trousers and wasn’t wearing any socks. He forced himself to look away and not ask about why he seemed to have a vendetta against both socks and shoes. To avoid blurting the question out, he heard himself say, “You know, if you want me to visit you could just ask.”

Malfoy breathed in sharply and pulled a face. “I don’t _want_ you to visit. Don’t be so absurd.” He quickened his pace just slightly. “I told you that Blighter was threatening poison and I’m trying this new thing called radical honesty.”

“Is that part of your year of growth?” Harry asked. 

“You can shove your amusement up your arse.” Malfoy’s face flushed. “Maybe it is! I’ve read a lot about it.”

“Growths?”

“Maybe. There’s not much else to do.” His voice had slipped back into bitterness. 

Harry wavered for a moment before he said, “Well there’s not much to do outside of here either, so it’s not like you’re missing much.”

Malfoy stopped walking and, a moment later, Harry did too. He turned to look at the other boy, who had narrowed his eyes and looked torn between annoyed and amused. “Are you seriously trying to comfort me by saying house arrest isn’t all that bad, really, because you’re out in the real world being boring so obviously if I wasn’t locked up here I would be doing the same?”

Harry winced. “Um.” 

He did not say anything more and Malfoy waited a good ten seconds before he laughed and shook his head. “You are unbelievable. Truly. Let me assure you that however boring you are being, I would _never_ do that.”

Suddenly Harry felt as if he had to defend himself. Malfoy didn’t know the half of it. He didn’t know about Harry’s life, or what his friends were doing, or how he was coping. He didn’t know that the last few years had felt like hurtling forward at breakneck speed, barely hanging on, barely getting time to breathe and Harry wanted to enjoy the now but wasn’t sure how. He didn’t know anything at all. 

“I’m not boring, Malfoy. There’s just a lot that needs to be figured out first and it’s not smart to rush into things.”

“You sound like Granger.”

Harry frowned deeply. “What does that mean?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t mean anything other than you sound like Granger. Rushing into things is what you do best, Potter, anyway. Everyone knows that.”

Pushing his hands into his trouser pockets, Harry scowled at the ground. He thought about arguing, but it felt kind of pointless. It was what he was known for. He was definitely not going to argue. “I think things through.”

“Of course you do.” They were getting closer to the top of the lane where Malfoy usually disappeared through the front doors and down a hallway, leaving Harry to go upstairs to the study. This time, once they stopped inside the front door and removed their shoes, Malfoy very unsubtly crowded Harry, clearly leading him down one of the hallways. Harry did not debate whether he was going to follow; he just did it, natural as breathing. 

“I _do_.” Harry raised his voice and it bounced against the tiles. One of the portraits frowned at him and he muttered an apology. “I do! I’m debating my future at this very moment.”

“How nice for you,” Malfoy drawled. “Would that we all were so lucky.”

Harry scowled. “Shove it, Malfoy. You made your choices.”

“Yes,” Malfoy said, trying for airy and sounding oddly stiff. “I suppose I did.” Silence sat between them again, sharp as a thorn Harry found himself reluctant to prick himself on. Malfoy did not have the same compunctions. After a minute, he sighed. “Potter, if you tell someone you’re debating your future it’s only polite to share how. Are you weighing up the pros and cons of tell-alls to each publication? My advice is to go for the one which pays the most.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t take your advice.”

“I know.” Malfoy smiled, a bitter looking twist to his mouth. They had been wandering down corridors for what felt like forever but he stopped now, leaning against a heavy door and letting Harry in first. Harry was surprised to find he’d been led to the kitchen but he didn’t say anything about it. 

The room was huge, almost cavernous, and he could see doors in the back which clearly led to other rooms – pantries, probably. There was a massive table in the middle of the kitchen and part of it was covered in half-prepared ingredients, chopped onion and celery, a mound of peeled potatoes, a loaf of bread that had been cut and left under a stasis charm. The bottom part of the table seemed to be Malfoy’s seat of choice, for he headed there right away. A small cauldron sat simmering on the table and there were books spread out around it, a few bundles of parchment with Malfoy’s distinctive scrawl fanning out. Harry was mildly surprised to see that there were four different mugs cluttered around the outside of the parchment, a tell-tale mark of somebody absentmindedly making themselves tea and forgetting to bring a mug along. This seemed ludicrous and wasteful when Malfoy was apparently stationing himself _in the kitchen_ but Harry found he was reluctant to say anything. He knew it would sound too sharp and the thought of a proper argument made him feel weary. Instead, he looked around the kitchen a little more: the large fire at one end, over which something was roasting, but which seemed to have contained its heat to its hearth. Everything was gleaming and clean; this room had obviously been taken care of before any other, more care poured into it than several of the Manor’s other rooms.

“Nice room,” he said finally, when he realised Malfoy was watching him with a strange look.

“It’s only a kitchen,” Malfoy said, gruffly. He folded his hands around one of the mugs of tea. “Blighter will get you tea if you want.” Harry didn’t have time to answer: Blighter simply appeared once Malfoy spoke his name and began preparing the tea. Harry decided that telling him not to could be seen as an insult. 

“Thanks,” he said, holding the mug. He did not sit down and Malfoy did not tell him to. Instead, they stared at each other until Malfoy rolled his eyes. 

“Stop looming. Tell me why you’re here.”

Harry thought it was rich for someone who was probably over six foot to tell _him_ to loom, but took a seat nonetheless. He drank some tea because it would be rude not to and fiddled with the sleeve of his jumper. Malfoy watched him like a hawk. 

“I’m here because of your letter and it’s delusional if you think it wasn’t an invitation.” Harry enjoyed the glare Malfoy shot him. “And I’m here because, like I said, I’m contemplating my future and it’s actually not that fun.”

“Of course it’s not,” Malfoy said. “You’ve saved the whole world again, everything else must pale in comparison.”

“It’s not that. The other stuff just isn’t as immediate.”

“Well, why don’t you tell me what the other stuff is?” Harry hated that Malfoy sounded calm and reasonable, things he frankly didn’t associate with him. He also hated that he felt so out of sorts that this seemed like a normal thing to be asked, to share his vague thoughts on his future with someone who had once broken his nose on a train just for the fun of it. 

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “Fine. I don’t know whether to accept the Auror offer or not.”

Malfoy squinted at him, confusion in the shape of his mouth which was chased away a moment later as he started to laugh. 

Harry flushed with annoyance. “It’s not funny, Malfoy. It’s a very important offer.”

“Of course it is,” Malfoy said, in a tone that didn’t quite reach unkindness but certainly pressed intimately against it, “but then again, Potter, you were always going to get a very important offer.”

Harry bit back his first retort and then his second, trying to will away any urge to hit Malfoy, yell at him, or chuck the cup of tea around him. He thought about doing it for a blissful moment and then said, like someone who was trying to be a grown up, “Malfoy, it’d be nice if you weren’t a prick for like twenty minutes.”

Malfoy snorted, lifting his mug to his mouth carefully and slowly before setting it down. “All right, Potter. You have twenty minutes exactly.” He nodded at Blighter, standing in the corner, and the house elf clicked his fingers. Numbers materialised into the air and started counting the seconds back from twenty minutes. Harry stared at it, surprised, for a full five seconds before Malfoy said, “You’re wasting time.”

Once a time limit was imposed, Harry floundered for something to say. He slipped his hand through the handle of the mug, lifting it, and looked at Malfoy for a long moment. “I just don’t know what to do, I guess,” he said. He didn’t look at the countdown. The numbers sliding down made him nervous. “That’s what it boils down to. I don’t want to do something and then regret it.”

Malfoy’s mouth twisted into a shape that Harry couldn’t comprehend and he leaned backwards in his chair, tipping it onto its back legs. “I heard that you never regret something if you follow your heart.”

“Where? On a poster?”

“From a Hufflepuff.” Malfoy made a face. “Much of the same, really.”

“You’re not supposed to be a prick for twenty minutes,” Harry reminded, very helpfully. 

“Only to you, Potter. I’d make no such promises in a more general sense.” Malfoy looked extraordinarily pleased with himself. He lifted a hand to smooth over his hair, tucking it behind his ears as he looked around the kitchen and then back to Harry. “Potter, I don’t know why you’re stressing about this. It’s ridiculous. Everyone has known you wanted to be an Auror for years. Frankly, I’m sick of hearing it. You already know what you’re going to do anyway, don’t you? When you really think about it.” 

“Why would I be talking about if I already knew?”

“Because you’re having some kind of crisis, clearly.” Malfoy said it as plainly as he would have told Harry the time. Harry hated that. He hated that Malfoy could spit out words that held such heft and it didn’t seem to shake him or take a piece of him at all. He hated that Malfoy seemed to have somehow resigned himself to his own seismic shift and therefore gave little consideration to Harry’s. He hated that he even thought like that, like a part of him wanted Malfoy to be more concerned about _Harry’s_ life. It didn’t make any sense. 

“I am not having a crisis.”

Malfoy held up a hand and shook his head. “Potter, if I am going to do this without insulting you greviously then you need to not say such ridiculous things in front of me. Obviously you are having a crisis. I cannot think of any other reason why you are here or why you have been here. You broke up with your girlfriend, you’re consorting with Death Eaters in a house that you no doubt have horrific memories of, and you’re currently seeking career advice from one. That spells crisis. I’ll give you that it’s an unorthodox spelling but I’m fairly sure it’s in a dictionary somewhere.” Malfoy finally lowered his hand. He looked pale and tired and very certain. “You know what you want to do and you’re overthinking it. So why don’t you just do what your heart tells you and stop talking about it? Your voice is getting on my nerves.”

It was the tone of Malfoy’s voice, the way his eyebrows had raised just slightly and the exasperated tilt to his mouth that made Harry laugh, a clear, bell-like sound which rang across the kitchen. Malfoy looked startled at first, though it quickly faded away, replaced by a grin that was small and pleased. 

“You didn’t even last the twenty minutes,” Harry said, gesturing towards the countdown clock. 

Malfoy shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. “It wasn’t binding.”

“I’ll get you to sign a contract next time.”

Pulling a face, Malfoy said, “As if I would, Potter. You can’t catch me out with contracts; I’m a dab hand with them.”

Harry laughed again, though this time it was softer and more into himself. He curled his shoulders over the cup of tea in front of him and stared down at it. “That’s the single most boring thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I live to bore you,” Malfoy said grandly, sweeping a hand across the table. The cauldron nearly suffered for it and Malfoy sprang into action right away, clattering forward and stirring it, jumping around and throwing extra things into the cauldron. Harry watched him as he moved about the kitchen, a muttering whirlwind, and he felt almost calm.


	3. pt iii. (autumn)

The sense of calm that descended over Harry after he made his decision lasted until he told other people about it. Hermione asked him over and over again a litany of questions, composed of the liturgy: was he sure? Did he want to take some extra time? Did he want to make another list? She was quick to stress that she supported him, but she just wanted him to be _sure_. Harry tried to be as reassuring and resolute as possible, because he knew that was the best way and because anyone who had spent more than ten minutes in Hermione’s company knew she was a worrier. Ron, meanwhile, just nodded and said, “All right, mate,” and left it at that. 

Sick with his own worry, Harry waited until Hermione was probably asleep before he crept into her room, hoping to find Ron still awake. There was a moment he was afraid that they were both asleep and he was just going to be the massive creeper standing over their bed but Ron turned as the door opened, lifting his head. He nodded at Harry and a second later was standing in the hallway, looking down at him intently. 

“Mate,” Ron said, gently.

“No, no.” Harry crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s important for me to say it, so will you listen?” Ron nodded but Harry barely looked at him before he barrelled on. “I love you, you know that? And I’d love to just do stuff with you forever, like I’ve always dreamed about working with you even though I would have point blank refused to get business cards. And for years and years I thought that it was going to be us against the world, yeah? Like, we were going to grow up and become grizzled old Auror partners together, with a long list of stories that we could break out and people would be so awed and impressed and, more than that, we’d be able to say that we had fun and did good and always had each other’s backs. That’s what I wanted. A part of me still kinda wants it, but it’s not all I want, you know? And if Ginny thinks I’m stuck — and I don’t think she’s wrong, I’m just saying if she thinks I’m stuck then maybe I am. And maybe I feel a bit stuck. And maybe I feel like the only way to not be stuck is to do something that I want now, not that I wanted before. I’m not the same person I was a couple of years ago. I’m not even the same person I was a couple of months ago and I don’t really want to be an Auror anymore, but I would do it in a heartbeat for you if that’s what you want me to do.”

Harry stopped to take a breath, trying not to trip over his own tongue, gearing up to start again when Ron stopped him. Ron reached out, clasping Harry’s shoulders and squeezing and Harry looked up into his friend’s face, nervous about what he would see there. He expected to see disappointment; instead Ron just looked vaguely sad. “Harry,” he said, gentle again. “Mate. I would never, ever ask you to do that for me. I don’t even want you to want to do that for me. It’s kind of nice and all, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t want you to be mildly miserable all the time just to make me happy.”

“But I wouldn’t be mildly miserable if you were happy,” Harry protested.

Ron laughed and shook his head. “Yeah, you would. You just don’t get it right now. That’s fine, though, because I get it. If you don’t want to be an Auror then, Merlin, Harry, don’t be. I’d only be happy if you were happy, too. Seeing you wear yourself down would break my heart a bit.”

“Oh,” said Harry, quiet as a mouse. He looked up at Ron. “Oh,” he said again and Ron’s face cracked, falling into pieces at whatever he saw on Harry’s face. Harry wasn’t even sure what it was — he couldn’t think, he was too full, too shocked at the weight of the idea that him not being happy would break someone else’s heart. He was revelling in it, turning it over in his head, as Ron wrapped him in a hug, huge and bear like, bringing Harry in and almost crushing him. Harry gasped and then hugged him back. 

They didn’t talk about it in the morning but Harry felt lighter.

“Maybe,” Harry said to Malfoy, a few days later, as he walked up the lane, “I could become a healer.”

“Potter, you do make me laugh.” 

Harry really hated Malfoy.

When Harry wandered into Hermione’s kitchen that night after his run, it was to find her carefully filling a pencil case with stationary. He greeted her before downing two glasses of water and then turned to her, a considering light in his eyes. 

“Hermione?” She lifted her head and Harry continued, “Do you think I could be a healer?”

Hermione paused in the arduous task of picking a large gold quill or a small bronze one and looked at him. Her eyebrows lifted. “I think you can be anything at all, Harry,” she said, but when Harry frowned she quickly added, “I’m serious! But I’ve never thought about you being a healer before.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, glumly. “That’s what Malfoy said too.”

“Oh well!” Hermione gestured so violently that one of the quills went flying. “What does he know? Honestly, Harry, you should know better than to listen to everything that comes out of his mouth. He didn’t even — I mean I know he’s _trying_ but he doesn’t know you. You can do whatever you want to do.”

“That is not as comforting as people think it is.”

Hermione’s expression was full of compassion. “Oh, Harry. You’re going to figure it out. You always do.”

“Potter, if I have to listen to you complain for even five more minutes I am going to steal your wand, okay?” Malfoy leaned closer so that his face was directly in Harry’s line of view and he couldn’t focus on anything else but it’s sharp lines and points. He waited until Harry made eye contact and then Malfoy made a satisfied noise and started to talk again. “I am going to steal your wand and I will kill myself with it. I will murder myself and it will be so messy and you will definitely get arrested for it and all the evidence will stack up against you and you will go to prison. All of that, simply for not being able to be quiet for ten fucking minutes. It would be a shame, for yourself, and a shame for me. You understand?”

Harry nodded and Malfoy drew back, patting the back of Harry’s hand. “Wonderful. I’m glad we’re getting to a place of understanding. It gives me hope.”

“I’ve just got one thing to say.” Harry watched Malfoy turn towards him again, his jaw set, a wild look in his eyes. It was entirely possible that Malfoy would rush at him and grab for his wand but Harry would bet that he was quicker. He leaned forward and grinned as he said, “It’s just you went from five minutes to ten minutes, so I wondered if you were confused about how numbers worked again?”

Malfoy flushed instantly, skin heating several degrees. “I can’t believe you’re harping on about this again. You get one sum wrong and suddenly everyone’s a critic.”

“It was three times six. It’s not that hard.”

The look Malfoy gave him was scathing and embarrassed, which made it even more scathing. Harry delightedly swung his legs back and forth on the kitchen counter. “Not everyone cares about _mathematics_ , Potter,” Malfoy spat. “Stop kicking my kitchen and help me or get out.”

Harry laughed delightedly and pushed himself up and off the counter, landing with a thump which got him a disdainful look. He walked over to Malfoy’s cauldron and looked down into it. “Look’s bubbling.”

“I honestly loathe you, Potter. Move, you make me sick.”

Harry’s visits to Malfoy Manor were irregular but not infrequent. Ever since Malfoy had sent the owl to Harry and his subsequent morning visit, the silent embargo against visiting any time other than exactly three p.m. in the afternoon was lifted. He did not always send word that he was appearing either, which started by accident and then became something of a habit. 

He still emphatically did not understand either Malfoy, however Harry was becoming increasingly sure that he barely understood himself. Every time he apparated outside the manor without asking, he was surprised. Every time, he told himself he was going to consider it deeper, maybe engage in some self-reflection. Harry had not managed to do anything approaching it.

This was definitely helped along by the fact that Malfoy never once mentioned it. Harry had known before that Malfoy was capricious and mercurial, flashing in and out of moods. It had been obvious at school; it was even more obvious now. Harry wasn’t sure if it was worse, either, and did not want to ask. It felt too intimate. Instead, he learned Malfoy, memorised the topography of his face: he learned the curve of his mouth which meant he was amused and hiding it, the tightness of his jaw which spoke to an anger Harry himself had not caused. He learned the way Malfoy moved: languid and graceful only when he was aware that others were watching, becoming erratic and even _chaotic_ when he became excited. He learned, too, the way Malfoy looked when he was tired, when he was laughing, when he didn’t want Harry to be there.

Harry could tell from the moment he saw Malfoy, three weeks into September, that he did not want to see Harry.

His first hint was, admittedly, huge. Harry stood at the front gates for nearly fifteen minutes before they opened and after his trudge up the lane, his heart thudding with a sadness Harry was ashamed of for not seeing Malfoy there, he was met by Blighter at the front door. 

Blighter had mellowed slightly as Malfoy had, evidently deciding if his master was going to spend time with Harry then he would have to thaw. As he opened the door to Harry, he did not look thawed. He looked just as stiff and unfriendly, a vague look of disdain on his face. “Mr Potter has not chosen a good time,” he said. His tone was bland but somehow it made him sound even more disdainful. 

Harry frowned. “How do you mean? Are there visitors?”

Blighter frowned. “It is just a bad time.”

Harry felt his curiosity tug at him. He took a step forward and Blighter rushed forward himself, hand up, as if he could stop Harry in mid-air. “Mr Potter, it is a bad time. I do not believe Master Draco or Mistress Narcissa would be happy to entertain guests at this present moment.”

“But why? Are they ill?”

Harry tried to step forward again. Blighter’s face flashed with anger and he said, “ _Mr Potter_.” Harry had just decided to pay him no mind when he heard Malfoy’s voice, sweeping down from the top of the stairs. 

“Oh Blighter, I told you. He’s unbearably stubborn and devoted to making a complete arse of himself.”

Harry was still immediately and both Harry and Blighter turned, looking up at Malfoy. 

Malfoy, who was lounging against the banister at the top of the stairs. Despite his posture, he looked stark and severe, his hair pushed back from his face. He wore a dark suit, which looked black from a distance, and a waistcoat. Harry was fairly sure he still had one of his too-large shirts on underneath, but it was hard to tell. Mostly, Harry found himself watching Malfoy’s face. He looked drawn, and tired, his eyes bright with an emotion Harry couldn’t place. He looked like he definitely did not want to see Harry.

“I’m not making an arse of myself.”

“You definitely are, Potter. Blighter’s already very kindly informed you that we were busy.” Malfoy’s frown was deep enough that Harry could see it from the bottom of the stairs. Also, he hated standing at the bottom of the stairs while Malfoy lounged at the top. He put his foot on the bottom stair. 

“You don’t look busy,” he said, accusingly. “And I only wanted to make sure that nothing was wrong.”

Laughter burst out of Malfoy; it did not look particularly glad. In fact, it looked like it hurt, like the sound was wrenched out of Malfoy’s gut, leaving him breathless and wounded. Harry felt his heart surge and he bit down on his lip. He took another step forward. 

Instantly, Malfoy stopped laughing. He pushed himself off from the banister and glared at Harry. “Do you really not understand English? It’s not a good time.”

“I understand English,” Harry said, ascending another few steps. Malfoy became visibly tenser with every movement. “I’m asking what’s wrong, that’s all.” Harry stopped on the stair in front of Malfoy, tilting his head up. Malfoy looked down at him and, for a moment, his gaze was wild, unruly, unsure. He looked torn and terrified, yearning and angry. The expression was there for long enough for Harry to memorise it before Malfoy seemed to catch himself and turned his head away. 

“Why do you care?”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, achingly honest. “I just do.”

Malfoy tilted his face back towards Harry, staring down at him with a deep wrinkle on his forehead. His eyes were huge, warm as steel melted down, and he reached out. Malfoy looked as shocked as Harry was when his fingers settled on Harry’s shoulder. Harry turned his head to look at it; Malfoy hesitated and then his hand smoothed over the shoulder over Harry’s t-shirt. He patted Harry’s shoulder and then said, “It’s my father’s birthday.”

“Oh.” Harry tensed and Malfoy lifted his hand, drawing it back to his chest. He looked confused and then he took a step back, withdrawing into the corridor. He did not look back and did not tell Harry not to follow him as he power-walked down it, so Harry took that as an invitation. Harry had not taken his shoes off and his footsteps echoed; he saw Malfoy notice, but he did not slow down.

“Malfoy,” Harry called. Malfoy did not respond. “Malfoy,” louder this time and again, “Malfoy!”

Finally, Malfoy stopped, spinning round. He looked on the verge of tears, which was why Harry was not that surprised when Malfoy picked up a candlestick from a nearby table and threw it at him. It was a particularly bad throw, going extremely wide, knocking into a portrait who yelled loudly instead. 

“You got your answer,” Malfoy growled, “so can you just leave now?”

Harry looked at him and then swallowed. He put his hands in his pockets to try and stop himself fidgeting, ducking his chin into his chest to stare at the ground and then looked back at Malfoy again. “If you want me to go, I mean, really, truly want me to go then I will. But you look — upset.”

“Oh do I?” Malfoy sneered. He looked cruel and violent as death, an imposing figure against the looming shadows of the Manor. Harry wanted to touch him somehow, to calm him, to pull the Malfoy he had started to get to know out of the shadows and replace the one standing in front of him. “I couldn’t imagine why. My father should be here but he’s in jail. That could be something to do with it. My mother and I should be allowed to visit him but we _can’t_ because we’re under house arrest. My mother can go in a few months at least, which is great for her, but I can’t go until _next year_ which is, quite frankly Potter, a little upsetting! And all I see all day is her face, and Blighter’s face, and my face, and your stupid face and nothing else. It’s all just a _little_ upsetting!”

Malfoy was breathing hard, lingering close enough to the rest of the candlesticks that Harry suspected they could become a missive again. He didn’t appear to have noticed them however, instead staring straight ahead, looking at Harry with a hunted expression. Harry lifted his hands, palms out, and walked closer. 

“I get it,” Harry said, soft. “Or I don’t. I don’t get it, but I can imagine and I’m sorry, Malfoy. I’m sorry you don’t get to see your dad on his birthday.”

“Don’t patronise me,” Malfoy spat. “I don’t believe you for a second.”

“Then don’t believe me.” Harry spread his hands out wider. “I’m just telling you it because I think it’s what you want to hear. That’s what I do all the time, right? Tell you what you want to hear.”

Malfoy opened his mouth then shut it. He repeated this several times and then scowled at Harry, as if angry that he would dare say that. He didn’t speak though, so Harry felt emboldened to carry on. “I think your dad sucked, but it’s okay to be upset that you don’t get to see someone you cared about. I’m not gonna tell you that you shouldn’t. Probably.”

Malfoy lifted his hands and cupped his own face, fingers clawing at the tops of his cheekbones. He still looked wild and desperate, but the cruelty had leached from his face slightly. “Put your hands down, you look ridiculous,” he snapped. “I can’t bear you.”

“I can’t bear you either,” Harry said, feeling lighter. “Especially not when you’re chucking candlesticks at me. Can we sit somewhere there’s no candlesticks?”

“No. We’re not _heathens_ , Potter, there are candlesticks everywhere.” Malfoy spoke distantly, as if he was barely interested in the words he was saying. He dropped his hands from his face and looked at Harry instead with an intensity which left Harry feeling breathless and somehow unprotected. His lungs were tight; the hall was too small; he wanted to go outside again. Instead he blinked up at Malfoy and pulled a face. Malfoy’s mouth quirked into a smile but it was fleeting, disappearing quickly. He was still staring at Harry too much. “Potter, I don’t need you to witness every terrible moment of my life.”

Harry pulled a face again, this time at the ground. He looked at his feet and then back up at Malfoy. “I don’t think that’s how it actually is.”

Malfoy laughed, bitterly. “Oh, it is. You’re always there. You’re there nearly every time I do something stupid, or selfish, or when I don’t want you to be.”

Harry shrugged. “I guess I have great staying power.”

This time, Malfoy’s laugh was less bitter, instead skirting towards resignation. “That’s wonderful for me, then.” It made Harry frown and he was just about to ask what he meant when Malfoy straightened up and walked to a door not far from them. Harry had missed it. He could not understand why because the minute Malfoy touched the wall the door was there, gleaming wood, welcoming them. Malfoy pushed it open and said, “Come along, Potter.”

Harry followed him. He had not necessarily expected anything from the room: he had walked through enough of the Manor with Malfoy that he knew it was filled with odd rooms, rooms with nothing in them but a piano, some chairs and a lot of furniture with no defined purpose other than to look impressive. He had seen countless drawing rooms and studies, several of them in disrepair that both he and Malfoy had taken pains not to directly mention. He had seen the kitchen and the dining room and Malfoy had walked through a ball room once, shoes off, doing a dramatic rendition of Harry’s terrible dancing at the Yule Ball which had left him breathless with laughter.

He had not seen any of the bedrooms. He had not expected to. Stepping into the room, Harry didn’t realise what it _was_ at first, not until Malfoy disappeared around a corner and Harry followed him. The front chamber of the room was filled with bookcases and a massive desk upon which were piled bundles of notes. A huge fireplace dominated one wall of the room, around which were arranged a few armchairs. One of them was completely covered in discarded clothes. 

Harry was staring at it as he walked further into the room and it was only when he heard a noise that he turned his head and saw Malfoy clutching a bottle of firewhiskey. He then saw Malfoy’s bed, a gigantic four poster. He _then_ found himself staring at Malfoy, his mouth open in surprise. 

“This is your bedroom!” he said, almost accusingly.

Malfoy blinked at him. “Well done. Of course it is. Why else would the door be charmed only to appear for me?”

Harry had no answer to that question because then he would have to admit he had no idea what Malfoy was talking about, as he had not realised that was happening. Instead, he snapped his mouth shut, looking to one corner of the room. He studiously tried to avoid looking at the bed. It seemed weirdly intimate. “I didn’t know we were near your bedroom.”

“Yes, well.” Malfoy shrugged, crossing to the desk. He moved some paper and unearthed glasses, which he poured the whiskey into. “You followed me as I was departing to drink myself into a stupor, you see. It’s not my fault you’re a stalker.”

Everything Harry could think of to say sounded stupid even within the confines of his head (“I didn’t know you had a bedroom”) so he chose, instead, to reach for the glass in Malfoy’s hand and take it, throwing back the whiskey. When he tilted his chin down again, Malfoy was watching him with glittering eyes. 

“Potter, I said I was heading for the stupor. You’re simply not allowed to go first.”

Harry grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Malfoy hummed, clearly not believing him, and then walked over to throw himself into one of his armchairs. Harry followed, trying not to look at the huge pile of discarded clothes. It felt even more intimate than staring at his bed had been; it felt too much like truly knowing Malfoy to see his dirty laundry literally spread out in front of him, the jumble of things he had worn and thrown aside. Unfortunately that meant he had to watch Malfoy as he flung his legs over the side of his armchair and stared into the fireplace. A fire was lit but until Harry walked right in front of it he could barely feel the warmth. The Malfoy’s had obviously perfected the charms to allow them the aesthetic delight of the fire without the overwhelming heat. It was ridiculous that it made Harry smile. 

“I don’t need you to pretend that you care about my father, Potter,” Malfoy said, more to the fire than to Harry. “It’s insulting to both of us and, although I usually enjoy insulting you, I’m feeling too tired for it today.”

Harry looked at the bags under Malfoy’s eyes. “I don’t know what I’ve done to make you think I’m big into pretending for other people, Malfoy, but I’m really not. You have to let that go.”

Malfoy scowled. “Maybe I just wanted you to start talking about how much you hate him.”

“Oh, well,” Harry said, leaning back into the armchair, letting it swallow him. “If you wanted that, you should have just said. I could start with a lot of things. You know, how much it sucked he kept trying to kill me, actually. I really hated that. It turns me right off a person when they keep trying to murder me.”

Malfoy smiled. He looked over at Harry, the dance of the flames in the grate reflected in his face. Harry watched the warmth of it light Malfoy up. “That’s a bizarre reason to not like someone.”

“I’m a bizarre person.” Harry toed off his trainers and pulled his feet up onto the armchair. Malfoy watched him carefully as Harry moved; it made Harry ensure to take great care not to spill the whiskey in his glass. “Malfoy, you know you’re going to see your dad again.”

Malfoy’s face fell, twisting into something as hard as stone. He looked away from Harry, scowling into the back of his armchair. “Of course I’m going to see him again; that’s not the issue. The issue is I’m always just going to be _stuck_ here forever. Even when I’m not going to be stuck here, this is all there is, Potter. A bunch of Death Eaters, imprisoned.”

Harry squinted at Malfoy. “How many whiskeys have you had already?”

“Don’t be smart. It’s a metaphor. We are going to be metaphorically imprisoned.” Malfoy evidently saw Harry’s blank look because he continued, “By the chains of our past.”

“Christ.” Harry massaged his temples. This time, he opted not to tell Malfoy that his dramatics gave Harry a headache but he filed it away to mention later. “Do you really think that’s what’s going to happen to the world? You think you’re just going to finish your house arrest and stay here forever?”

Malfoy looked over at him desperately and shrugged. “How am I meant to know, Potter? I’m no Seer. It just seems it.”

Harry considered Malfoy for a long moment. He wanted to burst right out, to tell him that he was being ridiculous. He had been a Death Eater and Harry didn’t doubt that he had wanted it at one point, no matter how much Malfoy had tried to obscure that fact throughout his trial. Malfoy had chosen a path and then deviated from it but that didn’t mean that he didn’t deserve a punishment. He wanted to snap at him and tell him that, for all the horrible things he had done, Lucius Malfoy had done even worse and maybe he did not deserve to be welcomed back to the world with open arms. Maybe, this time, he deserved a lingering consequence. 

He wanted to tell him all of those things but when he looked at Malfoy all he could think about was how exhausted he looked, how Harry had noticed every movement of his for the past few days looking slower and heavier, as if his bones were becoming more dense and he was unaccustomed to moving with that weight. He remembered how awful Malfoy had looked at the trials, the pallor of his skin after being in custody for those few months. Malfoy never talked about it but Harry knew the weeks in the Ministry’s cells had changed him. Harry let the silence sit, chewing on his bottom lip, cradling the glass in his hand and not drinking it. 

When he spoke, he watched Malfoy intently. “All you have to do, Malfoy, to change how people see you is to change yourself.” Malfoy looked at him askance, his mouth falling open and his narrow shoulders rising as if he was readying himself for a fight. Harry held up a hand. “I really, honestly don’t mean you have to change everything about you. You can still be roughly the same person, but you have to _show_ people that part of you has changed. You have to make them believe you. You have to try to be a better version of yourself. I don’t reckon it’ll be easy for you at all, actually, because you were such an unbearable arse for the last eighteen years of your life, so it’ll probably be a slog. And maybe things will be hard, because they usually are, but I don’t think you’ll be imprisoned forever by the ‘chains of your past.’” 

Malfoy snorted. “There’s no need to make air quotes, Potter. The chains are real things.”

Harry smiled. “I mean, maybe, but you don’t look very chained up to me.”

“You have poor eyesight, so no one can trust your judgement,” Malfoy said, grandly. He lapsed into silence almost immediately, twisting in the armchair so he was studying Harry. Harry tried not to flinch away from it, willing himself not to shift under Malfoy’s stare. “What makes you think I’ve changed?”

Harry blinked at Malfoy, before gesturing at the other boy and then back at himself. “Haven’t you?”

Malfoy sighed and shrugged. He looked unhappy. “Even if I told you yes, why would you believe me? I wouldn’t believe me, in your place. You’re practically the only person I see. I would tell you ‘yes’ just to make sure I’m not completely alone, wouldn’t I?”

Something twisted, sharp and biting, in Harry’s chest. He leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, eyes bright and earnest as he said, “Malfoy, if you tell me something and I think it sounds believable, I’ll probably believe it.”

Malfoy took a deep, audibly shuddering breath and stared at Harry. He looked wretched and young, his mouth twisted into a deep frown. In the dim firelight, he looked almost vampiric. Harry wished he had taken off the severe suit. “You’re such a fool, Potter,” he said, softly. 

Harry lifted one shoulder. “Maybe,” he said, “but I’d rather have a bit of foolish hope about people, than not.”

The sound that left Malfoy’s mouth was torn and broken, almost a sob. He looked swiftly away, staring fixedly into the fire. Harry pressed his elbows down firmly into his thighs to try to dissuade himself from standing, moving over to Malfoy and — and he didn’t know what. Reaching out and touching him. 

“All right, Potter. Then, yeah, let’s say I’ve changed. Let’s say I’m different and somehow better. Are you happy?” There was something gleaming in Malfoy’s eyes that made Harry feel dangerous. 

Screw it, Harry thought, and stood up then. Malfoy watched him warily as he walked over to him, never taking his eyes off Harry for a moment. Harry held out his hand and Malfoy stared at it, unmoving. Eventually, Harry had to reach out and gentle prise his fingers away from the whiskey glass. Malfoy’s eyes were huge and hot on him: Harry told himself it was the reflection of the flames. 

“I’m happy if you’re changing,” he said, pouring whiskey slowly into the glass. “That’s all anyone ever asks for, right? New beginnings and the ability to transform.”

“You spent far too much time with Dumbledore.” Malfoy’s voice sounded faint, as if he was sitting further away than he was. When Harry returned with their refilled glasses Malfoy looked as if he had suffered under a horrible thought and was not best pleased about it. He gratefully took the glass from Harry and downed it in two gulps. Harry watched the line of his neck in surprise. When he drained the glass, he looked at Harry with a challenge in his eyes. “Well, Potter, hurry up. You don’t want to be so far behind. There are terrible consequences.”

As it turned out, there were terrible consequences to keeping up too. Harry was evidently slightly better at holding his drink: broader than Malfoy, with more mass, and probably having eaten a proper meal in the last few days, the whiskey didn’t hit him like it hit Malfoy. He drank like he was chasing oblivion, pining for the sweet decimation of misery in every glass of whiskey he threw back. Harry fed Malfoy water and tried to coax him into eating anything Blighter brought to them. In a fit of melodramatic pique, Malfoy grabbed one of the sandwiches, yelled “I didn’t know you were a _feeder_ , Potter! I hate salami! Begone, salami!” and then threw the sandwich into the fire. 

Harry turned to Blighter for help, but the house elf simply shrugged and disappeared. He did not like that elf. 

He also did not like it when Malfoy thoroughly chased the morose stage of drunkenness, something that was only cut short by him sitting up straight and proclaiming he was going to vomit. Harry ran after him, tripping over a pile of books which delayed him enough that Malfoy had already thrown the door of his en suite open and was hanging over the toilet. Harry didn’t even hesitate before he was on his knees beside Malfoy, a hand rubbing his back, murmuring at him until he was done. Malfoy looked at him with glassy eyes, made several feeble attempts to shove him away and then curled his fingers into the soft cotton of Harry’s t-shirt, pressing his forehead into Harry’s collarbone. 

“I’m tired,” he said.

Harry, frozen for only a split moment in time, rubbed his hand up and down Malfoy’s back again. “Okay,” he muttered into Malfoy’s hair. “Then it’s time to go to bed, Malfoy, yeah?”

“I don’t wanna.” Malfoy sounded like a child, a high-pitched whine in his voice, the uncharacteristic word choice making Harry grin. Harry would have bet he was pouting.

“You’ll definitely wanna when you’re in bed, though.” Harry curled an arm around Malfoy. “Trust me, okay? We’ll get you to bed and I’ll tell Blighter to make sure you’ve got everything you need waiting on your bedside table for your hangover tomorrow.”

Malfoy pressed his nose into Harry’s chest and sighed. “I’m going to hate me so much again in the morning,” he breathed out. Harry’s breath caught in his chest and then he lifted a hand to stroke through Malfoy’s hair. The other boy made a noise, a sharp inhale, and then he sagged against Harry. 

There was no way this was going to work if he let Malfoy do that. 

“Right,” said Harry, business-like. “Up. Come on, Malfoy. Bed. Up.” He herded Malfoy like a sheepdog, finally depositing him on top of the bed where he sprawled on his stomach, starfishing. Harry looked fondly at him and then turned to call Blighter. Once he had given a very rambling, rather tipsy, but probably fairly clear run down of things he thought Malfoy would want Blighter to know, Harry had to borrow an owl.

Ron picked him up from outside the Manor gates, not even attempting to hide his laughter as he apparated Harry home and dumped him into bed. 

The next day was miserable and filled with Ron’s impression of Harry stumbling down the lane of Malfoy Manor and tripping over his own feet several times. Harry groaned and blushed and tried to drown everything he didn’t like by eating bacon and drinking several gallons of water.

Late that night, Herbert, the Malfoy’s owl, appeared at Harry’s bedroom window, pecking gently to be let in. Harry started and then pulled himself out of bed, easing the window open. Herbert dropped the letter onto Harry’s bed and then flew around, perching on the window sill and hooting lowly. Harry grinned at him and went to pick up the letter.

Malfoy’s clear but overly fussy handwriting read:

> _Potter,_
> 
> _Am currently in the doldrums, with a sickening memory of being put to bed. Would greatly appreciate it if neither of us ever spoke of such horrors again._
> 
> _I apologise unreservedly for any morose ramblings you may have heard._
> 
> _Regards,_
> 
> _Draco Malfoy._

Harry had no reasonable explanation for why he grinned down at the short letter like a fool or why he laughed as he dashed off a quick response to Malfoy, assuring him he had already put an account of putting him to bed in the Gryffindor newsletter.

He had to cover his mouth to stop his braying laughter when Malfoy sent back a letter which, upon opening, turned into a large, origami middle finger and then exploded into glitter. 

For Hermione’s birthday, they went to a museum. Harry and Ron arranged for a bottomless brunch before the visit and they were quite thoroughly drunk by the time they reached the museum, all three of them clinging to each other and laughing. Every time Ron saw anything remotely funny, he tried to tell them in a level tone of voice and completely failed. Harry was left almost breathless with laughter as he stage-whispered, “Why does that portrait have that tiny man with such a massive bulge?” and an elderly couple breathed in sharply with displeasure before hurrying off.

Hermione tried to be stern but it was hard to be stern when she wobbled as she walked and her eyes were bright with alcohol. 

The museum morphed into an art gallery somehow and then dinner, the three of them tucked into the corner of a pub, wolfing down pies. 

“Merlin,” Ron groaned, shovelling steak and ale pie into his mouth. “This is your best birthday ever, Hermione.”

Hermione laughed, nose scrunching up as she watched Ron eat. “That’s what you say to everything that involves food.”

“I mean it, though.” Ron put his fork down, reaching to hold her hand. “I’m so fucking glad we’re all here. This is loads better than last year. And next year will be even better. And we’re always going to just do whatever you want on your birthday, because we love you, and we’re always going to be together.”

Ron beamed at Hermione and Harry, soft and fond, his smile bright and affectionate. It made Harry feel lighter just to look at him. Ron was easily the most effusive of them all with his affection; the Weasley family was large and boisterous and loving and Ron seemed to find it normal to tell them he loved them when the feeling struck. Hermione was more precise and Harry himself far more reticent, but in the middle of a pub in London, all of their edges blurred by alcohol and laughter, they listed the ways in which they loved each other and stumbled home through the Floo in the Leaky, ignoring the photographer in the corner. 

When the picture came out the next day, the three of them decided to get it framed.

“Potter, I have a question,” Malfoy said, as Harry crushed up some eye of newt to help him the next time he visited. They were standing close enough to each other that every time Harry shifted his weight onto his other foot their shoulders brushed. Harry couldn’t shake the feeling it was calculated. 

“That wasn’t a question, it was a statement. Ask away.” Harry reached for some coriander.

“I was just wondering if all you did these days was drink.” Malfoy’s eyes were gleaming. “With me, with your friends. I saw the picture in the paper.”

“It was Hermione’s birthday. We went out.” Harry started to chop the coriander. He was completely unsure if it was for the potion or for Malfoy’s dinner. “People tend to drink on other people’s birthdays, as you know.”

A bloom of colour appeared on Malfoy’s face but he did not acknowledge it. Stiffly, he said, “It looked like you were having fun.”

Harry hummed. “Yeah, we were. It was pretty great, to be honest. We went to a museum and an art gallery too, although I don’t know how much I learnt.”

Malfoy was quiet, adding ingredients slowly to the potion he was working on. “That sounds very nice,” he said. It felt like a whole minute had elapsed. 

Harry paused in his chopping and turned his head slightly to look at Malfoy, studying him as best he could from the awkward angle. Malfoy looked stiff, still, and cool, the way he tended to when he was trying not to betray what he felt. He thought about Malfoy in the corridor throwing a candlestick and talking about his house arrest. A decision made before he really thought about it, Harry knocked Malfoy with his elbow and said, “I’ll take you after you get out, sure. It was fun.”

He looked away to maintain that it was a casual offer, a normal thing that he could or would have done at any time. Malfoy’s eyes were hot on the side of Harry’s face, but Harry kept methodically chopping and did not look at him. 

“Okay,” Malfoy said finally and then they didn’t talk again for the next ten minutes. 

Harry was making his own pasta when Ron crashed through the door, muddy boots still on, a smudge of blood high on his cheekbone and a toothy grin on his face. Harry stopped kneading for a split second, blinking at him, and then started again. “Shoes off, mate.”

“Shoes off!” Ron imitated, but he was still grinning as he flopped into a chair and pulled his boots off. “Shoes off! As if you’re not dying for me to tell you what I did today.”

Harry smiled. “I don’t need to die. You’re definitely going to tell me in two seconds.”

“I could hold out,” Ron said, before he wrinkled his nose and shook his head at his own foolishness. They both knew he was dying to tell Harry and there was barely the space of a breath before he launched into his story. “Actually, I definitely couldn’t. Harry, it was bloody brilliant — they took us out to this forest to test how we’ve been doing. And I mean, it was hard and some of them were absolutely beat — you should have seen Terry Boot! — but my team did _great._ ” Ron’s smile grew as he talked until it covered his face, bright as the sun. He watched Harry as Harry finished kneading the dough and left it to rest before coming over to sit beside him.

“Of course you did great. I mean, you’re brilliant. You’re always good with strategy.”

Ron beamed even more. “It’s all those chess games you let me trounce you in.”

“Hey!” Harry pretended to be offended. “I did good in some of those games.”

Ron looked kind as he leaned forward, reaching out to pat Harry’s arm. “No, of course you did,” he said, in the same tone of voice Harry had heard mothers adopt with children. It made a laugh rise in his chest and he leaned back, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Well, you going to tell me all about it then, or do I have to tempt it out of you?”

“You’re gonna let me eat some of that food, so you’ve already done that,” Ron declared, before launching into a recap of his day. Harry watched him intently as he talked, relishing the light in Ron’s eyes, the way his enthusiasm made every gesture huge and expansive. He laughed along as Ron told him about the mission, about stumbling and falling on his face, how a girl he was training with had to haul him up even though he was at least twice her size. Mostly, he watched how delighted Ron looked and the easy way he told the story, with a deep pleasure rolling through every syllable. 

Once Ron finished the story, Harry grinned at him. “You’re enjoying it then?”

“Mate,” Ron said, “it’s the best thing I’ve got to do so far.” He looked slightly abashed as he added, “Course, it would be even better with you there.”

Harry shrugged. “It’s fine, honestly. I mostly just want to be as happy as you looked talking about it, you know? I don’t think I’d be that happy where you are, so it’s best for both of us.”

Ron watched Harry with a considering look on his face, his gaze searching, before he finally nodded. “Yeah, all right. I’ve decided I’m gonna help you figure out what you like, anyway. This weekend. We can go and sort of try a bunch of things out.”

Harry squinted at him. “You want me to go to a jobs fair?”

Shrugging, Ron said, “Sort of. You’ll see.”

At first, Harry did not, in fact, see. Following breakfast on Saturday, Ron blindfolded Harry and then apparated the two of them, telling Harry with his special brand of easy confidence that he just needed to trust him. Harry did trust Ron but that didn’t quite stop the curl of apprehension which lay in the pit of his stomach, hard and cool. When his feet touched the ground he had to tell himself it was important not to rip the blindfold right off. Instead, he let his friend lead him forward a few paces before Ron ripped Harry’s blindfold off, proclaiming “Ta-dah!”

Harry blinked. Then he blinked again. Then he pulled a face. “Ron, this is Grimmauld Place.”

Ron sighed. “Yeah, I know! But I’ve got it all set up. Hermione helped, of course — she’s going to be along later, she had to go and pick up some studying stuff — but every room has something else we thought you might be interested in. And it’s all sort of practical stuff. I mean, we kind of had to bandy our names around a bit, but there’s someone here who plays Quidditch, and there’s a Healer, because Hermione said you were talking about it that time. And then there’s a couple of other things we thought maybe you would be interested in, like we’ve got a broommaker in too and Bill got one of his cursebreaker friends in. It’s pretty cool.” Ron had been bouncing on the back of his heels, gesturing from one room to another as he talked or pointing up the stairs, his excitement obvious, but then he looked at Harry and took a deep breath. “I mean, it’s whatever.”

Harry stared at Ron and then he laughed. “Mate, you bandied your names about?”

Red as his hair, Ron shrugged. “Just a bit — people were falling over themselves, actually, to help. When we said what it was for.”

“For me?” Harry tried to ignore the unpleasant swoop of his stomach, the self-conscious twist which usually left him feeling unsettled. It didn’t matter that people wanted to do this for me who he didn’t know; what mattered was that _Ron_ had wanted to do this for him. That he had taken so much time and effort and tried to think of things that Harry would want to do. Harry felt something swell within him and he swallowed around a lump in his throat. “Ron, this was a lot of effort.”

“Well!” Ron looked flustered. “Well, it was for you, you know? I’d do anything for you.”

“Oh.” Harry could feel himself blush. He cleared his throat and said, “Right. Let’s crack on, then, shall we?”

It wasn’t just the open house of possible career ideas for Harry. For the next fortnight, Ron kept arranging things for Harry to do, with or without him. He visited some training grounds and different shops — apothecaries were added to the list but when the two of them stood out the front Ron turned to him and said, “Look, I think I might have gone a bit mad here, wanna grab a pint instead?” After they grabbed a pint, Harry led them to a park, a couple of tins purchased from the nearest off licence swinging from a bag. Time had somehow lurched past them and it was mid-October now: Harry loved the splendor it brought to the park. The trees curled above them, creating a colourful tapestry of bright oranges and reds tangling together over their heads. A steady, cool wind had whipped through and shaken a sheet of leaves free. Harry and Ron trampled through them as they walked, the plastic bag swinging from Ron’s hand. Their feet crunched on the leaves and Harry smiled at the sound. 

They stopped by a bench fairly far into the park, secreted away between two of the larger trees. There was a fountain not far from them, lazily gushing water. A redhead girl was sitting on the edge of it, her arm wrapped around a toddler in her lap, excitedly talking to him. Harry looked at them for a moment, feeling a flutter of loss in his chest, before he looked away. 

Cracking open his tin of cider, Harry said, “You know you don’t have to keep doing this, Ron. I’m fine.”

“I know you’re fine. It’s just I want you to be more than fine. I want you to feel like me and Hermione do.” Ron opened his own drink, leaning back to recline against a park bench as best he could. 

“I’m not either of you, though. I think I’m just enjoying —”

“Please don’t say you’re enjoying what you have now, mate. It’s just you and us and then you visiting the Malfoys and then you disappearing sometimes into Grimmauld.” Ron looked serious. “You don’t even do anything there, Harry.”

It was a criticism said softly, though it felt as sharp as the wind. Harry sucked in a breath and then took a sip from his tin. “I don’t know what I want to do with the place.”

“That’s your problem. You’re not making your mind up.” Ron leaned over, shoulder against Harry’s, a warm weight. He was looking at him with huge eyes, a steady, weighted gaze. “You’re not an indecisive person. I dunno why you’re doing it.”

Harry kicked his feet out at the leaves. One of them flew up and then settled on the white at the toes of his trainers. He looked at it intently. “Maybe I just like what I have now,” he said, quietly. “I like living sort of with the two of you. It feels like home. Not quite like Hogwarts, but pretty much as good as it gets for me. And I like — I like going to the Malfoy’s, I guess. I think I don’t mind him now, really.”

Ron snorted. It was a loud sound, clear enough that it drew the momentary attention of the young mother and her son. Harry laughed into his hand, delighted with the small wave Ron aimed at them. “Harry,” Ron said gravely, “I think I’d figured that out for myself. You’ve never really hung around with people you don't like. Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t understand it one bit and I think you should also be doing something else, but if you’re not letting depression naps take over your life then I reckon we’ll deal with it.”

Harry loved Ron so much it made him feel a bit ill. He leaned in to him and let that be his response.

Malfoy was making a potion the next time Harry stopped by — or, rather, he was probably making a potion because he was in the kitchen and a cauldron was bubbling but he was soundly ignoring it and was scribbling on some parchment. Harry hovered in the doorway, watching Malfoy. He had a jumper on over his shirt and both were pushed up, almost to his elbows. He chewed on the end of a quill every now and again, the feather bedraggled from how often he had done it. Harry watched Malfoy move the quill around and then back to his mouth, entranced, and then he cleared his throat. 

Malfoy startled and looked round, abashed. “Potter!” He looked accusingly at Harry. “You were visiting my mother.”

“Yes,” Harry said with a grin, “and now I’m finished. Maybe you should stop eating your quill and eat proper food, if you’re that hungry.” Harry walked into the kitchen and over to the kettle, laughing as Malfoy scowled at him. Even with the scowling, he set his quill down, obviously not wanting to continue chewing on it when someone else was around to see him. 

“I’m not hungry. I was thinking. You might want to try it a time or two.” Harry turned his back to start the kettle boiling; when he turned around again Malfoy had tugged the sleeves of his jumper back down to his wrists. Harry looked at him and Malfoy stared back, face only slightly flushed, meeting his gaze straight on. “Potter, for the love of Merlin, can we please skip lengthy discussions today? I’m very busy.”

“What are you doing?”

Malfoy gestured at his notes as if that explained anything. Harry stared blankly at him until he sighed. “Some of us aren’t going to have the good fortune to be loved and admired throughout the entire wizarding world forever and ever, so I’m trying to get a head start on making a name for myself.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “With potions?”

Shrugging, Malfoy said, “I’m good at it. Make the tea, Potter.”

“Don’t boss me about, Malfoy.” Harry sat down immediately. “Make your own tea.”

They looked at each other, Harry glaring and Malfoy with a light in his eye that Harry didn’t understand until he tilted his head back and laughed. “You always make it too strong,” Malfoy said, moving to gather mugs. “You’re so easy. I knew that would make you decide not to do it.”

Harry couldn’t decide how affronted he was so sat, scowling, until Malfoy deposited a mug in front of him. He looked at his mug which was perfect — strong enough for him and, when he sipped it, sweet enough too. He looked over at Malfoy, who was slowly sipping from a much milkier cup of tea. Malfoy was watching him carefully. 

“Shut up,” Harry said.

“I didn’t say a word.” Malfoy looked pleased with himself, a small smile tucked away in the corner of his mouth. If Harry hadn’t been looking so closely, he doubted he would have seen it. He needed to look away.

Opening his mouth, Harry heard himself say, “Ron threw me a job fair.”

Malfoy blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“A job fair. He arranged one. For me.” Malfoy was still looking at him as if Harry had sprouted three heads. Harry lifted a hand, almost as if to check, and then ran it through his hair instead. Malfoy kept watching him. “It was really nice, actually. People don’t really do things like that for me and he’s not trying to press or whatever, I think he just wants me to find something to do with my time.”

“Other than come here.” Malfoy didn’t sound bitter but his fingers were white around his mug. 

Harry lifted a shoulder. “No, I think he’s mostly fine with it. Ron’s a good guy — and if you disagree with me, I will throw this mug at you, so.” 

Malfoy scowled but looked down at the table. He didn’t speak for a moment, clearly considering whatever he was going to say as he traced the grains of wood on the table with the hand that was not wrapped around his mug. Finally, Malfoy knocked his knuckles against the wood. “So was the job fair helpful?”

Harry was thrown enough that he didn’t respond for a second. Then, he shrugged again. “Maybe. I don’t know. I didn’t really want to do any of the things we saw but it was nice to rule it out. Is sitting around in your manor and scribbling away helpful?”

“To my boredom, yes.” Malfoy looked over at his pile of papers. “I’m doing a long distance course. One of the institutes in France agreed to it.”

“Really? Even with,” here Harry trailed off, not sure how to be delicate or even if he wanted to be. He found he did, though. He had always wanted to draw reactions from Malfoy, to claw at him with words and hands and drag up anger, or spite, to make his eyes flash with heat. He didn’t want that in the same way, anymore. He wanted the other boy’s attention, but he didn’t want to hurt him quite so badly. He hesitated, licked his lips and then said, softly, “Even with everything that has happened here.”

Malfoy apparently had been watching Harry carefully. His eyes were bright with something like fever. It lit up his whole face.“Some of the French institutes are filled with huge traditionalists, Potter. The most distasteful thing about me is that I got caught.”

“That’s — well that’s horrific, I hate that.” 

Malfoy laughed. “Yes, I suppose you would.” He stood up suddenly, pushing himself up from the table and beckoning for Harry to follow as he walked towards the door that led to the gardens. “I’m going outside, Potter. Come along, will you?”

Because he couldn’t do anything else, Harry followed. 

Malfoy had made an attempt at clearing some of the larger gardens but it was half-hearted at best. Harry never saw him do it and no one ever spoke of it. The gardens simply _were_ , half-wild, half-tamed, stretching everywhere around the estate. As autumn swept in, they had become brighter; the cool, sharp winds rustling the trees and shrubbery, gracing the land with its own quilt of brightly coloured leaves. Several of the plants had died and Harry had noticed that greenhouses had sprang up, carefully reinforced with charms. Malfoy’s sentence, Harry had learned, meant that he was allowed to do very little magic and that every time he used it his wand logged a spell with his probation officer. Malfoy, who had admitted that it rankled, therefore did as few spells as he could manage to. Harry knew that he must have thought the gardens worth it. 

He supposed they were. Malfoy certainly seemed to view them as precious; it was clear from the light in his eyes, the way he swept his gaze across them. They were quiet as they walked down the pathway, Malfoy letting his fingers drag slightly in hip height bushes. There had been blackberries glinting from them just a few months ago and they had picked them off as they passed, eating them as they walked. Harry missed it. He thought maybe Malfoy did too. 

“I’ve been thinking about trying to tidy this place a bit,” Malfoy said, cutting into the silence. He sounded dreamy. “I never really liked gardening. I didn’t have the patience for it and it was always Mother’s forte, but she doesn’t always love to come out here now. I would hesitate to tell you why.”

Harry’s mouth quirked upwards. Sometimes, Malfoy spoke like a normal person and sometimes his breeding reared its particular aristocratic head. “Nothing you say is going to scare me away, Malfoy.” Harry sunk his hands into his pockets as they came to a stop by what Malfoy had once called the “best water feature.” It both amused and perplexed Harry that there could be enough water features in the garden to have a best one, although he found he couldn’t deny it was pretty great. Water cascaded down a wall covered in ivy, pooling into a red bricked basin below. It was huge and wide and although it wasn’t a pond, it wasn’t far off. Around the edges of the water was another red-bricked wall. Malfoy leaned over and dragged a hand across the water, causing ripples to dance out from his fingertips. He looked into its surface and then up at Harry. The sun bounced off the top of the water and Harry had to squint to make Malfoy’s face out, set and determined. 

“Yes,” Malfoy said. “I’ve noticed that.”

The sun was so bright that Harry didn’t see when Malfoy started to move. One moment his hand was still dipped in the water and the next he was in front of Harry, looking down at him, the sun on his face. Harry felt Malfoy’s hand settle on the side of his jaw, thumb brushing up against his earlobe. Malfoy’s hand was wet and drops of water rolled down Harry’s neck and under the collar of his t-shirt. Around them, the garden was quiet. 

Harry looked up at Malfoy. He hadn’t moved and he was not sure he would know how to if he tried. He felt like he, too, had become a feature in Malfoy’s garden, like he’d grown roots and would never be able to move again. Malfoy was looking at him with hot eyes, his thumb slowly moving. Neither of them spoke, but Malfoy splayed his hand out across Harry’s jaw wider and brushed a finger across the seam of Harry’s mouth. Harry heard a sharp intake of breath and knew it was his own. 

Malfoy did not lean forward. He simply stood there, staring at Harry, and Harry stared at him, his heart pounding, the crash of water loud in his ears. Time was not moving and then it was, Harry surging forward, pulling his hands out of his pockets to grab at Malfoy’s jumper and tug him down. Malfoy’s fingers became claws on the side of Harry’s face and then their lips met. It was awkward at first, too vicious, their teeth clacking. Harry hissed but it didn’t seem to matter because then they were kissing again, Malfoy’s mouth hot on his. 

Harry could admit to himself, as he tilted his head back and tried to deepen the kiss, that he had thought about this. It had been in fleeting moments, thoughts he had decided not to chase down dark corridors, thoughts that had nonetheless haunted him. The whispered ghosts of the memories came to him now: times when he had been alone and considered what it would feel like to have Malfoy’s hands in his hair, what he would taste like, if he would kiss with any restraint. It turned out that he did not. Malfoy chased Harry’s mouth with fevered determination, his hand twisting through Harry’s hair, tugging at him as if he was afraid he would move away. 

Harry pressed himself against Malfoy, holding tight onto him, and tried to kiss him back harder. 

Harry broke the kiss. He had to. Malfoy’s hand had been soaking and drops of water continued to roll down the neck of Harry’s shirt, making him shiver every time. Malfoy chased the shiver, pressing harder into Harry every time, but eventually it became too much. Eventually, Malfoy’s mouth on his became too much, overpowering every one of Harry’s senses and making him feel as if he was losing himself. Drawing back for breath, Harry blinked at Malfoy and then let go of the front of his jumper. It was wrinkled, completely ruined by the grip of Harry’s fist. 

“I’m going to sit,” Harry announced, still staring at Malfoy, and then he nearly tripped over his own laces as he plonked himself down onto the wall around the not-quite-pond. He looked at Malfoy.

Malfoy was looking at him. His mouth was red and swollen and his hair was only slightly mussed: Harry had been grabbing too hard onto the front of his shirt to really bother. He knew that his own hair was wild, even worse than usual, and he supposed his mouth looked as ravaged as Malfoy’s. He wondered if he looked as stunned or as helpless. Malfoy looked unsure, hesitant, his shirt untucked (when had Harry done that?).

Harry swallowed and said, “You can sit down too. You don’t need to stand there.”

“Okay.” Malfoy paused for only a moment and then sat beside Harry. He left a respectful distance at first and then appeared to think better of it, scooting over just slightly. Harry felt the warmth of his body and leaned towards it. 

“Malfoy, I —”

“Potter, if you are going to embarrass me, I would really rather you left and did it in a letter. I don’t want to — I’d rather not look you in the face.” Malfoy was clearly very serious about it. He hadn’t looked at Harry and was instead staring straight ahead. There was colour high on his cheeks and the back of his neck was red. Harry watched it avidly and then he reached out, gently touching Malfoy’s shoulder. He started and then looked at Harry. His eyes were huge.

“I’m not going to embarrass you,” Harry said. “I’m not going to write you a letter either? Don’t be weird. I’m just — I’m just here. I just wanted to sit down.” He licked his lips, tasting Malfoy, watching Malfoy watch the movement. Harry swallowed again. “I didn’t expect that.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot,” Malfoy said, in a tone that was almost normal. “I tell you it all the time and you never listen to me. I’m very clever, so you really should.”

Harry laughed. He looked at Malfoy, felt something twist in his chest, a warmth that flooded through him and felt like fondness. “You ramble.”

“One of us has to. You rarely talk about anything of interest.”

“Hmm. I suppose so.” Harry fell silent and leaned his shoulder against Malfoy’s. Malfoy hesitated for a second and then relaxed, leaning into Harry, neither of them speaking for a moment. Harry resisted the urge to run a hand through his hair, or worry at his bottom lip, or bite his nails, or reach for Malfoy and see if he wanted to start kissing again. He resisted the urge to do anything but stay completely still, syncing his breathing with Malfoy’s, listening to the water fall behind them. 

After a minute, Malfoy took a breath and moved as if he was going to get up. Harry, not thinking, acted on pure instinct, reaching out and grabbing at his shoulder. Malfoy stared at him and Harry moved his hand, cupping the back of Malfoy’s head, watching his fingers disappear into Malfoy’s hair. He pulled him forward and kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him.

When Harry arrived home, Hermione and Ron were standing together in the kitchen, a covered pot boiling on the hob. They turned to look at him almost as one and Hermione blinked in shock. 

“Uh, mate, you’ve got a little something on your — neck.” 

“Yes.” Harry nodded and then he sat down. “Malfoy kissed me.”

A silence settled on the kitchen which was only broken by the sound of water boiling. Hermione and Ron looked at each other. Hermione’s face looked tight and Ron’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment. 

“I knew something was going to happen!”

Harry ran a hand through his hair and stared at Hermione. “You knew Malfoy was going to do that?”

“No!” Hermione’s hands were windmilling around her, every gesture huge. “I just knew something was! I suspected it! I was telling Ron but I — he _kissed_ you?” She looked at Ron with wide eyes. “I thought you were maybe going to fight! I thought maybe one of us would have to come collect you and maybe help cover up some kind of broken nose scenario. Then I thought maybe you were going through a crisis.”

Harry laughed. “Maybe I am?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Hermione sounded aggrieved. “I just didn’t think —”

“We didn’t think you’d clatter in here looking like something had attached itself to your face,” Ron interrupted. He met Harry’s eye, looking calmer than Harry had expected. They stared at each other for a moment and Harry felt like they were having a whole conversation. A conversation which mostly said _I don’t understand what you are doing and I think it’s weird but I’m your friend and I support you_ and _promise me not to tell me details_ and _if this happens again, though, I’ll listen but please...please no details._ Harry nodded at him and Ron nodded back.

Hermione looked between them and threw her hands in the air.

Hermione left for Australia a week before Hallowe’en, trying not to cry, looking pinched and pale. Harry and Ron saw her off, both of them grinning at her, deliberately cheerful in a concentrated way designed to take her mind off her own anxieties. Once the portkey that started her journey activated and Harry and Ron were alone they let their smiles disappear. 

“Do you think she'll find them? That they’ll remember?” Harry asked. 

Ron shrugged. “Maybe. I hope so.” He chewed on his lip and looked around the small chamber, expression pale and worried. Harry could see the moment Ron decided to let himself slip into a slightly easier conversation. “Though if they come back, it’d probably mean we can’t live there anymore.”

“I could buy us a place.” They walked out of the small room into the larger transportation department, weaving their way in between crowds of people. Most of them were too caught up in their own lives to pay Harry or Ron much attention. “I mean, it’s not really a hassle. Or we could do up Grimmauld properly. I do keep saying I’m gonna.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Ron fell quiet and Harry followed suit. Neither of them spoke again until they were out in the fresh October air, which had brought with it a fresh October downpour. Harry put up his hood and Ron wrinkled his nose, casting a charm to keep the worst of the rain off him. “You know, she asked me to mind the neighbour’s dogs? You know Mrs Ormsby? Apparently she asked Hermione to do it while she’s off visiting her son in Nicaragua or something.”

“I can do it,” Harry said instantly, so fast that it surprised both of them. Ron blinked at him and Harry smiled. “I like dogs. I’ll do it. You’re busier than I am, anyway.”

“Yeah, all right,” Ron said, after a minute. “I mean, my snogging buddy just left for the other side of the world and yours is only under house arrest.”

Harry shoved Ron into a puddle deliberately. 

Settling into a routine without Hermione proved weird. For a few days, Harry tried to establish one of his own. Ron, technically, still lived in the Burrow, but spent most of his time in Hermione’s house. He got up at the same time every morning and it woke Harry up. They shared breakfast and Ron would leave for Auror training, while Harry would leave to visit Mrs Ormsby’s dogs. It turned out she had many of them: a German shepherd, who needed a lot of exercise, several Westie’s, who needed a bit less, and a pair of labradors, one of whom was very active while the other seemed incredibly averse to moving. Harry started to take the dogs when he went on a run. He would stay with them for a while and then take off. He started to volunteer, picking different charities, trying to find something to fill his time with. 

He kept visiting the Malfoy’s. 

He didn’t know what it was. Malfoy didn’t seem interested in talking about it particularly and Harry had always hated how words eluded him, how his motives and reasonings never seemed to hold up once he gave voice to them. He didn’t know what it was about him that was so fundamentally flawed that he could never communicate how he wanted to but Malfoy didn’t seem to care. Harry would appear and they would find something to do. 

Sometimes, it was just that they would sit together in the kitchen, Malfoy pouring over notes and getting Harry to help him with his potions. Harry, who had always been a practical learner, found he picked a few things up from Malfoy but mostly he chopped ingredients and watched. This apparently suited Malfoy just fine, as he quite liked to talk. He narrated what he was doing, a string of instructions which Harry barely managed to pay attention to. He told Harry all about what he was working on, and what the course work entailed, and what he thought of the tutor, and what he thought of the last grade he was given (usually: it wasn’t high enough). Sometimes, they sat together, drinking tea or sometimes wine or sometimes whiskey. Sometimes, they talked. 

Sometimes, Malfoy crowded Harry against the kitchen cupboards, or the corner of the room, or any available surface and buried his hands in Harry’s hair, peppering kisses along the side of his jaw and kissing Harry until they were breathless. 

It never went any further. Harry decided he didn’t mind even when he followed Malfoy’s lips every time he pulled back, even when he arched into him, even when his hands slipped below Malfoy’s shirt and he found skin only for the two of them to break apart shortly after. It was fine. They would need to talk about it to make it go any further and Harry decided _that_ wasn’t going to happen and life went on. 

“You’re filthy,” Malfoy announced one afternoon, meeting Harry at the gate. Harry was filthy: restlessness had settled under his skin, an itch that never seemed to abate, and he had taken Yolanda (Mrs Ormsby’s German shepherd) and went for a run in the countryside, not caring that it was raining or that the muck he kicked up as he ran covered him. He had bathed Yolanda, but hadn’t done the same for himself. 

Harry looked down and assessed the damage. Mud ran up his legs. His t-shirt was still wet, both from the run and from Yolanda shaking her coat off in front of him. He was wearing shorts, even though it was the end of October and they were covered in muck. There was even dirt on his biceps. Harry blinked in surprise. “I didn’t realise it was so bad.”

“What were you doing?” Malfoy frowned. 

“I ran. I mean, I was running. With Yolanda. We went out and then I gave her a bath and now I’m here.”

Malfoy stared at him, a hard, searching look. It seemed to go on for a long time. Finally, he said, “It’s Hallowe’en.”

“Yes, and I look terrifying, I know.” Harry heaved a sigh. 

Malfoy continued to look at Harry oddly. They stared at each other and then Malfoy said slowly, “That’s not what I meant at all. You idiot. I wish I could tell you not to come inside looking like that but I know you’ll ignore me, so how about you shower instead?”

Harry shrugged, then nodded, then trailed after Malfoy. They didn’t speak as they walked up the lane although Malfoy looked like he wanted to a couple of times, opening his mouth and then letting his words turn into a heavy breath that he expelled. It was cold enough that the unspoken words formed a cloud in front of them; Harry relished walking through it. 

They kept not speaking as Malfoy led the way to his rooms, the magic activating when he got close. Harry watched it, dispassionate for the first time, and then he watched Malfoy tug him towards the en suite as if he wasn’t attached to his body. He saw himself place a hand on Malfoy’s upper arm, curling his fingers around Malfoy’s biceps and tugging him close. He saw himself lift a hand to Malfoy’s neck, dragging him down to Harry’s level so he could press his mouth against Malfoy’s jawline. 

Malfoy wavered. His back was curved but felt like steel under Harry’s hand. Malfoy lifted one hand to the side of Harry’s face, fingers dragging through the short hair by his ear. “Potter, you look like something that crawled out of the grave,” Malfoy said. He was practically whispering the words, pressing them into Harry’s skin. “I’m not going to do this with you right now. I think you’d regret it.”

Harry stepped back abruptly. He buried the hand that had just been in Malfoy’s hair in his own. He didn’t scowl but his ribs contracted, pressing into his lungs. He felt breathless and he wasn’t quite sure why. “Whatever, yeah,” he said and he stepped into the bathroom.

Malfoy sighed audibly and followed him. Harry elected to ignore him but it was difficult when the room wasn’t huge and he usually would have shucked his clothes off by now. It felt different to do that in front of someone he’d been trying to kiss moments before. Still, Harry spun round, hands on the bottom of his t-shirt and glared at Malfoy.

“I’m here to shower,” he said.

Malfoy shrugged. “Then you can shower. Except I think you’re going to angrily try to kick the shower first and I’m just here to protect my possessions.”

Harry screwed up his face. “So you’re here to watch me?”

Malfoy coloured instantly. Harry had noticed that he seemed to do that easily, his skin so pale that all of his emotions seemed to affect it. Harry watched the blush springing up, his eyes following Malfoy as he leaned against the bathroom sink. He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed, looking mulish and uncertain. “No,” Malfoy snapped. “Don’t be so crass. I’m here to tell you I don’t want you to take what I’m saying in the wrong way.”

“What’s the right way?” Harry reached into the shower and turned it on. Malfoy’s gaze flicked between the shower and Harry and the door. 

“You seem upset.” Malfoy spoke haltingly. “When I was — upset that time. With my father’s birthday. I was very grateful to you afterward, because you were there and you did the right thing and you didn’t seem to think twice about it. You just knew what to say and you did it. You were just there. I regret getting absolutely blottered and throwing up everywhere, but I don’t regret spending the time with you and I think that maybe you would regret it if I — if _we_ — were to do anything other than talk.”

Harry frowned. He had turned away from Malfoy, pulling the dirty t-shirt over his head and dropping it onto the floor but he turned back slowly. Malfoy’s gaze flickered to Harry’s chest for a moment and then back up to his face. He steadfastly refused to look down again, his jaw set in a determined line. Eventually, he lifted his chin and pointed it to the ceiling. Harry shook his head.

“What on earth are you talking about? Malfoy, if I was going to regret it I would have done that already. Now’s not any different.”

Malfoy did not look any happier. Instead, he looked more troubled, more pinched, and he gnawed on his bottom lip. “Of course it is, Potter. I don’t think there’s any point in pretending otherwise.”

“It isn’t different at all.” Harry opened the shower door. “Look, you really should leave now unless you’re planning on watching and then just stay but you know. You made it clear you weren’t.”

“Stop being so _annoying_ ,” Malfoy breathed out. He raised his hands to his face, digging his palms into his eyes, and then he looked straight at Harry. Harry felt the gaze like needles on his skin. “You can be upset about your parents, Potter. I’m not going to think less of you.”

Harry took a sharp breath in. “No, of course not.” He felt his own face twisting into a mockery of a sneer. “Already a pretty low opinion, huh?”

Malfoy looked sad. “No. No, of course not.” He sighed and then pushed himself off from the sink, taking a long step and coming to a stop in front of Harry. Malfoy held his gaze as he first pushed his shirt sleeves up and then rested a hand on Harry’s hip. His voice was low and secretive as he said, “I think very well of you, Potter, and I had thought that was abundantly clear. I can only gather it was not, for which I can only apologise. You’ve clearly felt comfortable enough to be _here_ with me today, even though you’re being impossibly stubborn, so I’m telling you that I’m going to be here for the rest of the night. I’m not hitting on you now but I’m going to undress you and shove you into that shower unless you do it yourself because, quite frankly, you smell and you’ve been assaulting my senses since the moment you came here today and I’m not prepared to let that continue, no matter what.”

Harry stood still for a long moment. Malfoy’s fingers were still curled around his hip and neither of them moved. Harry felt the burn of Malfoy’s touch, the heat of his breath, the tightness of his own chest. His eyes fluttered closed and he took a breath, trying to centre himself, trying to push the part of him that craved a fight away. Malfoy’s fingers smoothed over his hip bone a few times, drawing a circle. Harry tried to breathe in time with Malfoy.

“All right,” he said finally. He felt some of the tension leave Malfoy’s body. “I’m going to shower now. You can leave.”

Malfoy stroked the soft skin on Harry’s hip once more and let out a shuddering breath. “Don’t rush yourself.” He stepped back, nodded at Harry and left the bathroom.

Harry watched the door for a moment, trying to work out what was happening in his chest, why his breath was short, why he wanted to claw at his skin and chase after Malfoy all at once. He did neither. Instead, he took his own deep breath and then finished undressing before stepping in under the hot spray of the shower. He turned his face up to it, letting the spray hit his chest. The water beat down, a constant rhythm, and Harry lost himself in it. He let his eyes unfocus and let the thoughts he’d been repressing all day bubble up. The water washed away the grime and Harry watched it swirl down the drain with unseeing eyes, focusing instead on memories: his parents, swirling out from Voldemort’s wand; every memory of them he’d ever encountered; every picture he’d seen, from the moment Hagrid had pressed the album into his hands; the graves he had visited last year; their faces when he went to the forest, when he’d met them and thought about death. 

Harry pressed his hand against the side of the shower, his breath hitching as he bent under its spray. He had been told he was his father’s son, that he would have delighted his mother. He knew he had his mother’s eyes and his father’s skin. He knew that his dad’s family had been Indian and Harry felt his knees waver as he wondered if he’d know _anything about that_ if his parents had been alive. The water hit his back, hot and hard as needles, as he sat on the floor of the Malfoy’s shower and pressed his face into his knees. Maybe his mother had enjoyed long showers. Maybe his dad had liked baths. Maybe he would remember bath nights as a kid fondly, maybe he would have been read to sleep, maybe he would have grown up with parents who loved him and pressed kisses to his forehead before he went to sleep and slipped money under his pillow every time a tooth fell out. Maybe he wouldn’t have had to walk into a forest and say that he was ready to die. Maybe he wouldn’t have felt like crying in a Malfoy’s shower, maybe he wouldn’t have been pressing his fingernails so tightly into the soft skin of his thighs that they bruised. Maybe. 

When Harry felt like he could breathe again he stood slowly, unfurling under the water, sluicing himself up and using some of Malfoy’s fancy body wash. He shut the shower off and dressed in clothes that had appeared (hopefully, from Blighter). He ran a towel through his hair and stepped out. 

Malfoy was lying on the bed, a book on his lap. He looked up as Harry stood in the doorway of the en suite, towel in hand. Harry felt unbearably awkward and Malfoy looked tired. They regarded each other.

“I’m reading,” Malfoy said, finally. “It’s not about potions. I can describe it to you.”

Harry’s mouth felt dry. “Okay.” 

Malfoy patted the bed. “You can sit here. I don’t want you standing around, that’s too odd.”

Harry nodded. “Okay,” he said again and then he was crawling into Malfoy’s bed, sitting against the headboard and listening to him describe, in detail, the plot of the book he was reading. Harry tilted his head back and listened to the sound of Malfoy’s voice, the way his pitch crept up the more excited he got, his cut-glass accent softened slightly by tiredness. Harry closed his eyes and let himself drift.


	4. pt iv (winter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i realised vaguely when writing this and then after, when going over it, that november is technically autumn and not winter and then, after a short internal debate, i realised that i don't give a fuck! so! november's winter! it def FEELS LIKE WINTER so i stand by it and idwiw xxx
> 
> also, thank you to everybody who read and liked this and commented so far! i really appreciate it!!! i've been putting off reading the last part because vague wave but i'll prob post it in the next few days.

“I love Christmas as much as the next person,” Ron said, standing in front of the shop display with a wrinkled nose, “but I just don’t understand how they already have this much _stuff_ on sale.”

Harry pressed his hands deep into his jeans pockets for warmth and rocked onto his heels, laughing. “You said that a couple weeks ago.”

“That’s not fair. A couple weeks ago it hadn’t even been Hallowe’en yet, so my grumbling was entirely justified.”

“So you’re admitting it’s not justified now?”

Ron looked at Harry, askance. “I’m not admitting that at all.” He turned back to the display and sighed. “I should be happy they’re all out now. I told Hermione I wasn’t going to leave everything to the last minute this year.”

“Well. November is pretty early,” Harry said kindly. Ron blew out a breath and stared morosely at the display again. It twinkled back at them, seemingly even more festive in the face of Ron’s consternation. Harry had met Ron in front of the Ministry after work and they’d wandered into Diagon, in search of Ron’s elusive first Christmas present. A Christmas shop had popped up, taking over a disused shop, a huge sign out the front declaring _Yule Not Want to Miss Out On Our Festive Fancies!_ Harry had laughed and loved it and Ron had just looked almost as panicked as he did now, staring at shelves of snow globes and baubles and decorative tea towels.

Harry reached out and nudged Ron. “I don’t think Hermione’s going to want a tea towel, to be honest with you. She might be a bit put out by it.”

“I’m not gonna get her a tea towel! I just — what if Mum wanted this one?” Ron reached out and lifted one of the towels. There was a trim of holly around the outside and the fabric was charmed to show a snowy winter scene, children pushing a sled down a hill and then trekking to the top, over and over. It was very festive and the children were redheads.

Harry shrugged. “It’s nice. You could get it for her, definitely.”

Ron groaned and said, “I hate this” and then folded the tea towel over his arm. He picked up a snow globe and shook it. “Hey, Harry? Do you want a globe for Christmas?”

Harry laughed.

It was easy to avoid someone who was on house arrest. _Not_ that Harry would have called it avoiding. He had woken up in Malfoy’s bed on the first of November, morning sun crawling through a gap in the curtains. Malfoy had been asleep beside him, face pressed almost fully into the pillow near Harry’s head, one arm loosely thrown over Harry’s chest. Harry couldn’t remember when he had fallen asleep or if Malfoy had tried to rouse him. He was still half-propped up against the headboard with a crick in his neck from the position. Malfoy’s hair had fanned out on the pillow around him, pale and bright. He had been barely awake and reached for it, running his fingers through Malfoy’s hair and trying to will sleep away from him. 

Harry had left soon after. Malfoy had still been asleep and when he had quietly cast a spell to see what time it was he knew that there was no hope Malfoy would be up soon. It wasn’t even eight when Harry padded carefully down the corridors heading to the front door. It wasn’t even eight when he rounded a corner and Narcissa was walking towards him.

They had both stopped, staring at each other, Harry’s heart in his mouth. Harry could not remember what he had said or done but he had been in his bed ten minutes later so he supposed that it must have been enough for no one to have an argument. He hadn’t written to Malfoy since. He wasn’t quite sure what to say. He didn’t know how to pick apart the dense forest of emotions somehow contained within his body, a thing he was emphatically _not_ good at, so instead he had thrown himself into things he thought he was good at. He took Mrs Ormsby’s dogs out for walks and runs; he fed them; he played with them. He liked it so much he started offering dogwalking services in the local area, walking the estates and making friends with people and their pets alike.

When he found himself crashing into bed more than a week after he’d sneaked out of Malfoy’s, Harry thought: _okay. You’ve got to pull yourself together._

The next morning, Harry pulled himself out of bed, choked down some cereal and went to Mrs Ormsby’s. He barely let himself think about what he was doing, collected the German Shepherd, Yoland, and apparated to the Malfoy’s. He had to delay going up the lane to soothe Yolanda for a moment, stroking behind her ears and murmuring to her. By the time they started to walk up the lane, he knew that Malfoy would be aware Harry was on the property. 

Malfoy was waiting at the door. 

Harry pushed his hand into Yolanda’s fur for comfort and raised his hand in a wave. Malfoy stared back, his arms folded over his chest. Harry thought he must have been cold. The air had a very pronounced chill and the grass around them still had morning frost clinging to it. Harry could feel the ice in the air even through his thick Weasley jumper and all Malfoy had on him was a shirt and a pair of wool trousers. He stood still, looking as pale and remote as an ice statue. Harry looked for any thawing as he got closer. 

“Morning,” Harry said, stopping right in front of him. 

Malfoy’s gaze swept over him and then down to the dog, dispassionately. “I don’t need a pet.”

“She’s not for you.” Harry smoothed a hand over Yolanda’s fur even as she nosed forward, sniffing at Malfoy. Her tail wagged so ferociously that it hurt when it hit against Harry’s leg but he just smiled at her. “She’s my neighbour’s. Well, Hermione’s neighbours but I’m looking after her dogs while they’re both away.”

Malfoy stared at him. “I see.” It was clear from his voice that he did not see but was choosing not to ask any further questions. 

Harry stared at Malfoy, lifting a hand to rub to nervously rub at the back of his neck. “I thought maybe we could go for a walk.”

“Did you?” Malfoy still sounded chilly and disinterested. 

“Yeah. Yolanda’s great, I mean you can see that, and maybe then it gets you out of the house a bit. I know it’s not a lot but,” Harry trailed off, shrugging. “If you wanted.”

Malfoy snorted. He frowned at Harry, then Yolanda, and then at the sky. “I don’t think so, Potter.”

Harry felt his heart drop. He wasn’t sure why: he wasn’t sure what he had expected. He licked his lips and then looked at Malfoy, who still wasn’t looking back at him. His jaw was set and his shoulders were lifted, as if he was bracing for a fight. It hit Harry like a punch to the gut that he had hurt him.

“Malfoy, I’m sorry,” Harry blurted out. He scuffed the toe of his trainers against the ground. “I was rude. I shouldn’t have been. It was rude to leave like that and then I shouldn’t have ignored you since.”

Malfoy’s face still looked pinched but he met Harry’s eye. “Ignore is a strong word.”

“What else would you call it?”

“Avoid. I didn’t get in touch with you.” 

“No,” Harry said, after a beat. “You can, though. If you want.”

Malfoy chuckled, but it sounded mirthless. “Oh, I’m tired of doing everything first.”

Because Harry didn’t know what to say to that or where to look, he ended up looking at Yolanda. She stared back up at him, tongue lolling out of her mouth as she shifted so she was panting against the side of his leg. She lifted her paw and pressed it to Harry’s knee. He smiled at her and rubbed a hand over her head, scratching between her ears. 

“All right,” he said, first to Yolanda and then to Malfoy. “All right, then, I’m doing this first. Want to come for a walk with me? I’m asking you to. I was kind of a jerk and I want to apologise.”

Malfoy snorted and then sighed. He brushed his fingers lightly through his hair and then said, “I’m getting my coat. That dog better not jump.”

While he disappeared to get the coat, Harry sank down onto his hunkers and petted Yolanda. He muttered to her, telling her that he didn’t believe she’d jump on Malfoy unless he specifically told her to. She seemed to like it, preening under his attention, coaxing a laugh out of him as she rubbed her head against him over and over. Harry stopped laughing when Malfoy’s shadow passed over them. He squinted up at Malfoy and then stood. 

“She won’t jump on you,” Harry said. “Nice coat.”

Malfoy scowled. “It _is_ a nice coat. I don’t need compliments from you, though.” He looked truly aggrieved, as if he hated that he had to say it. 

Harry nodded and started to walk back down the lane. Malfoy hesitated and then began to follow. “Okay, I won’t compliment you. I just want to say sorry, though. I know I was being a bit of a bellend.”

“You were.” 

Harry laughed. “Okay go right in then.” Yolanda trotted along beside him but when Harry nodded at her she took off, bounding across the grass. She headed straight for an area where Harry knew plenty of flowers had been blooming a few short months ago. Harry hoped she didn’t dig any of them up. “I thought it was — weird. I felt weird.”

Malfoy coughed and, looking surly, said, “Yes, Potter, I know. I didn’t realise that we were going to walk while you told me stuff I already knew.”

Harry took a breath to try to get a handle on his own irritation. “I’m getting there,” he snapped. Malfoy sniffed and knocked against him sharply, digging his elbow into Harry’s side. Harry did the same back and they tussled for a moment, both irritable and somehow both of them started to smile. Harry laughed and then shoved at Malfoy. He stumbled and then righted himself, giving Harry a dark look as he pulled at his coat. 

“This is too nice for you to push me into mud.”

“You wouldn’t complain if I shoved you to the ground, trust me.” It was out of Harry’s mouth before he thought about it. He snapped his mouth shut, colour creeping up his neck as embarrassment flooded him. Clearing his throat, Harry said, “Anyway, um. What I’m trying to get at is that I know you were trying to do something nice. I mean, I get that.”

Malfoy blinked at him and then turned away. Harry watched him watch Yolanda, who had taken to bouncing in front of them, running towards trees and then back again. “It seemed to have backfired.”

“It didn’t backfire. I appreciated it.” Harry traced Malfoy’s profile with his eyes. He reminded himself of how he’d felt after he’d ran out on Malfoy and thrown himself into everyday minutiae. He thought about how his stomach had twisted every time he thought about Malfoy waking up alone, about Narcissa telling him how Harry had left, the shame that had crept in every time Harry dwelled too long on it. Maybe he didn’t know what they were doing, but he knew he should be better than that. “I’m not very good at talking to people about things. I’m not very good at talking to _you_ about anything.”

Malfoy looked at Harry pityingly. “Potter, we talk about things all the time.”

“Nothing like — we’ve never really talked. It’s not our thing.” Harry shrugged, letting his shoulders stay up against the cold. 

Malfoy tilted his head to the side and studied him. “What is our thing then? I try to be nice to you and you run away?” 

Harry looked around helplessly. He wanted to call Yolanda over to him because her presence was a large comfort and he could lose himself in playing with her. Instead, he forced himself to look at Malfoy and take him in. He looked like he had thawed out since Harry first saw him, the edges of an ice sculpture melting. He still stood still, posture unyielding, but his fingers were no longer curled into his palm to make a fist and his shoulders had retreated the tiniest bit from his ears. Harry took it as a sign of encouragement. 

“No. I mean, I’d rather that not be it.” Harry licked his lips and straightened his own shoulders, lifting his chin so his face was turned fully towards Malfoy and the bright sun. “I’d rather you not feel like that was it.”

Malfoy looked even more aggrieved than he had earlier, pale and unhappy as he sucked his bottom lip into his mouth. “I don’t need to just _feel_ like that’s the case, Potter, when you keep doing it. I loathe this conversation. I loathe everything you’re saying.”

For some reason, that made Harry smile. He felt his mouth curling upwards and then he laughed, a soft exhale as he nodded. Malfoy looked at him oddly. “I loathe it too. That’s what I’m trying to say. I get — I get self-conscious. I don’t ever know what I’m supposed to say. Not just with you, but also it seems to happen a lot with you.”

“So you’re telling me,” Malfoy said slowly, “that I’m not special?”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “For God’s sake.” He wanted to throw his hands into the air and he would have done if he didn’t catch the expression on Malfoy’s face, a quicksilver flash of amusement that told him that no matter _how_ annoyed Malfoy was, he was also teasing him. Harry took a breath and only threw his arms up slightly. 

“I can tell that you’re making fun of me and I don’t mind. I’m trying to say that I messed up and it’s because I don’t like people knowing me. It’s weird to me that you do.”

Malfoy nodded slowly, looking at Harry with a piercing stare for a moment before he glanced down at the dog. Yolanda bounced back and forward from the trees to winding herself around them. Malfoy watched her, shaking his head gently. “Potter, we have known each other for almost half our lives at this point.”

“It’s not the same.”

“No, I know.” Malfoy sounded uncertain for a moment, words coming out slowly as if he was giving them some consideration. “It’s just, Potter, you must admit that it’s a little foolish to think I wouldn’t know why you were upset. And,” here Malfoy started talking quicker, as if worried Harry would jump in, “if you dare deny that you were upset, then I’ll have to leave immediately. I have eyes, so I could tell.”

Harry had considered it. He was ashamed to say that he had, the thought flickering in and out of his mind like a flame. At first, he had tried to deny it to himself: it was just another day, he was just restless and bored and frustrated with the tedium which threatened to creep into his life. He wasn’t upset about anything in particular, he was just aware that there were many upsetting things happening. He knew it had been daft; it hadn’t stopped him. Nothing had stopped him until Malfoy had calmly stroked his hand over the skin at Harry’s hipbone and Harry had crawled into his bed, listened to his soft voice talk. But even that had only lasted until Harry destroyed it. 

Harry didn’t know why he had caved into an instinct so quickly. He didn’t know what brought him to a place where he blasted through anything that could be good for him. 

“Okay, you’re right, I was upset and I’m admitting it. It was very nice of you and I won’t do something like that again.”

Malfoy sniffed. “I don’t know if I believe you.”

Harry tried not to let his spine stiffen in annoyance. He had hurt Malfoy, which anyone with eyes could see, and Malfoy deserved to take some shots at him. Harry couldn’t plaster over this wound easily because he still didn’t understand how to be someone who knew what to do with their feelings. 

“That’s fair. I suppose I can’t even promise I won’t do it, but I can try to be better.” Harry tipped his chin up towards Malfoy’s face and then, when he noticed the other boy wasn’t looking at him, he lifted a hand, pressing his fingers coaxingly at the hinge of Malfoy’s jaw. Malfoy started but turned his head to look at Harry. His eyes were wide and grey, tentative but unflinching. Harry stroked the tips of his fingers along Malfoy’s jawline, ending under his chin. He smiled at him, uncertain and unsure. “I’m going to try not to be a gigantic arse.”

Malfoy swallowed. Harry could almost feel his throat bobbing against the side of his hand. Malfoy’s tongue darted out and he licked along his bottom lip. It was the only part of him that moved. The two of them stood completely still as Malfoy searched Harry’s face and then gave a small nod. Harry got the feeling that it was so he didn’t move his fingers. “Being better than everyone is kind of your thing.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Harry said, instead of arguing. Then he moved forward slowly, as if pushing gently into a body of water. The cool air nipped at him. Malfoy’s coat whipped around them as the wind picked up. Harry’s mouth covered Malfoy’s and he kissed him, soft and gentle as a feather. 

Malfoy sighed into it and rested his hands on Harry’s hips. Harry smiled into his mouth and kissed him again. 

Ron was half-asleep on the sofa later that night, a half-drunk cup of hot chocolate on the coffee table, his socked feet propped up near it. Harry watched him for a long time, thoughts going everywhere, firing at everything and nothing, everything he wanted to talk about slipping through his fingers until he cleared his throat. Ron lifted his head just slightly, blinking at Harry. 

“Wassup?” he said, voice heavy and thick with sleep. 

“Do you think it’s hard to talk to Hermione?” 

Ron blinked again. “I ‘uno. You know Hermione. She likes to talk.”

“Yeah.” Harry nodded, bit his bottom lip, and then shrugged. “But is it hard?”

There was a pause, as if Ron seemed to realise that Harry was asking a proper question, that he wanted a real answer. His eyes were still not all the way open and sleep made his movements sluggish and slow as he shifted on the sofa. The pillows he had tucked around him moved. Ron yawned and then said, “Yeah sometimes. But it’s different than — whatever it is you’re asking for.”

“I’m asking because of — because of Malfoy.”

Ron groaned. “Mate, no, I know. I was giving us both a chance there to ignore it.”

Harry smiled, small, mischievous and unrepentant. He shrugged. “I’m talking about talking. Trying to be better at it. Thought I should maybe be a bit more forthcoming.”

Ron sighed and muttered, “Wish you wouldn’t.” There was no real heat in it, though, and as he pushed himself up, gently ensuring he didn’t kick the mug on the coffee table, Harry felt a huge surge of affection. They had all spent weeks and months since the war had ended talking and trying and swearing they would be better for each other, for themselves, for the world. Ron was one of the best people Harry knew, even when he yawned so widely his jaw clicked, even when he lifted the mug of hot chocolate and drank the rest down in one gulp even though it was bound to be disgustingly cold. 

“I thought something was going on with you and Malfoy. You were kinda off.”

Harry stretched his legs out over the arm of the chair he was on. “Yeah I guess. It was my fault though and I think it’s because — because I never know what to say to him. Or how to do it. Or how to even start.”

Ron nodded, a large hand still cradled around the mug. He looked serious, eyes huge and assessing as he looked at Harry, head tilted to one side just slightly. “Then, mate, you gotta figure it out. If you want to do it, then you will. It’s just one of those things, right? If you think someone is worth it, you figure it out.” The words settled in the air and Harry let them wrap around him, focusing on them, on Ron’s deep, solemn tone of voice and the comforting atmosphere and then — then Ron said, “Can’t imagine why you’d think he’s worth it, of course, but I always thought you were a bit of a weirdo.”

Harry picked up the pillow behind his head and flung it at Ron.

“Master Malfoy is in the piano room,” Blighter said to Harry two days later as Harry toed off his sodden trainers. Harry blinked at the house elf, who had started to walk away as if that was the natural end of the conversation. 

“Er,” he said and Blighter sighed. 

“Mr Potter does not know where the piano room is, does he?”

Harry shrugged and half-wished he hadn’t. The heavy rain outside meant his jacket was plastered to him and the movement made him feel chillier, more sodden, like he himself was an extension of a raindrop. Blighter’s disdainful look told him that the house elf was having a very trying day. He wondered what part of the property the elf had decided to tackle that day, but decided against asking. He’d learned the hard way. 

“I don’t — I don’t think I’ve ever seen Malfoy play a piano.”

“Of course not.” Blighter turned and Harry followed him, doggedly attempting some form of conversation that was mostly ignored. Instead of answering his mundane questions, Blighter instead regaled Harry with a list of all the painists that had once played in the piano room, looking more and more vexed as the conversation went on. 

Blighter opened the door to the piano room, announced Harry, even though there was no need as he was already in the room and then said, “I shall leave the two of you, but Master Malfoy I’m afraid that I must inform you that Mr Potter clearly does not know who Maleficent Mongoose is.”

The door shut with a bang. 

Harry blinked at Malfoy who had ceased playing when they walked into the room. The piano he sat at was huge. Harry had heard of grand pianos before, although he had never seen one. He certainly had never seen one as ornate as the instrument before him, polished until it gleamed, shining with a gold floral design that twisted up its legs, around its edges, spilling over the top. The piano was just off the centre of the room on a large podium, surrounded by vases. It was the most ostentatious thing that Harry had possibly ever seen.

For a moment, he couldn’t speak. He knew the Malfoy’s had been obscenely wealthy. He knew that they were _still_ obscenely wealthy, despite the vaults that the Ministry had confiscated, the property that had been stripped from them, the objects in the Manor which had been entered into an evidence vault or repatriated. The house itself was evidence of their wealth but the last few years had turned it into a hollow of itself (according to Malfoy), a duller, less fashionable, far less well-maintained home without its dedicated staff. Harry had listened to Malfoy whine on occasion of all the grand things that had been stripped from their home, although he rarely let the other boy get far into the complaints before he cut him off. 

Harry felt, for sure, that Malfoy had never mentioned that he owned the fanciest fucking piano that had ever existed. 

“Um,” Harry said, still startled. 

Malfoy frowned at him. “You don’t know who Maleficent Mongoose is?”

“I know who Maleficent is!” Harry said. “I just didn’t know she played piano here. I thought she was too busy poisoning Sleeping Beauty.”

There was a brief pause as Malfoy stared at him. A frown appeared between his eyebrows before it was on his mouth, his thin lips twisting downwards. He looked confused and alarmed at the same time.

Harry sighed. “My jokes are wasted on you. It’s a Muggle thing.”

Again, there was a pause. This one was slightly more pointed. Harry didn’t take his eyes off Malfoy, checking the corner of his mouth for a curl of distaste, tracking his expression. There was none forthcoming. Malfoy only continued to stare at Harry in confusion and then he looked down at the piano again. “It’s a stage name,” Malfoy said. “She was a wonderful pianist. My parents hired her to play at their wedding.”

“Lovely,” Harry said, stiffly.

Malfoy hummed. “Yes, rather. She played at my first birthday, too, although naturally I didn’t care much for it. She came back here a number of times before she died. My father always told me that I would one day learn from her but I was never truly motivated and she refused to teach me until I applied myself better.” He paused and turned his head to look out a window. Harry stared at him and wondered if he should be saying anything. The problem, of course, was that he didn’t have anything to say and Malfoy looked sad and wistful, his pale face even paler than normal. He wore a dark red shirt with large sleeves, a robe thrown around him as capitulation to the cold, although he had left it undone. Harry thought he looked stark and severe and so _sad_. Something in the pit of his stomach twisted and he took a step forward. 

Malfoy’s head snapped round. “I’ve become very good at applying myself to things, Potter,” he said, harshly, as if Harry had said anything to the contrary. “It rather depends on occasion, but I could be a lazy child and I don’t believe that’s who I am anymore.”

Harry nodded at him, stepping up onto the platform and hesitating only briefly before he sat beside him on the piano stool. Malfoy watched him carefully, a flint in the back of his grey eyes. “Everybody changes,” Harry said, his knee pressing against Malfoy’s. “Or everybody should change. I think — I mean, you know that I feel like the world has needed to change for a long time, but I reckon one of the ways we have to do that is by looking at ourselves first. I’m not the same person I was two years ago or a year ago. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing all the time but if we’re going to ask other people to do it, we have to do it too.”

Malfoy studied him intently and then exhaled. “You’re talking as if you’re a leader of some kind of force of change. Are you a politician now, Potter?”

Harry shoved him with his elbow and Malfoy laughed softly, his head tipping forward so his chin nearly hit his chest. Harry grinned at the side of his face. “I don’t think that’s on the cards for me. I just meant we, as in everyone. It’s everybody’s duty.”

“You’re a motivational speaker,” Malfoy said quietly. He moved his hands so they were lightly resting on the piano keys, fingertips barely brushing against them. Harry watched Malfoy’s hands dance up and down them, occasionally pressing a key in. The other boy hummed a disjointed melody but otherwise they sat in silence. Harry wasn’t sure what the strange atmosphere in the air was but he felt like it was almost close enough to touch. 

He found he preferred to touch Malfoy instead. His shoulder pressed against Malfoy’s and their knees rested together, forming a bridge. Harry gently reached forward and Malfoy’s hands wavered for a moment as Harry tapped his fingertips along Malfoy’s knuckles. 

It wasn’t enough that he had apologised in the courts. It wasn’t enough that he had thanked Harry, that he had made flippant remarks about his own stupidity, that he had kissed Harry breathless. It wasn’t enough for Harry to just wish that Malfoy was trying and it meant that he was. He needed him to say it to feel like he knew it. He wanted Malfoy to tell him that he was determined to keep changing. He wanted him to indicate that he cared about repentance, beyond the morose funk he’d fallen into at his father’s birthday.

Malfoy pressed firmly down on the piano keys. “I’m obviously going to say yes, Potter. I know my audience.”

Harry took a breath. “You’ve said that before. I still think it’s not smart to tell people that”

“It’s not smart to ask me.” Malfoy started to play a half-tune. Harry sat completely still, shoulders tense, biting on his bottom lip. He waited a moment and then he stood up abruptly. Malfoy immediately stopped playing, turning to him and gaping. He’d pushed the piano stool back. 

“All right,” Harry said. He stepped away, putting the piano between them. Harry didn’t know what had gripped him, what drove him to his feet, but there was a panic at the bottom of his stomach and a gaping hole in his chest. “Malfoy, if that’s the way it is then I don’t see the point in...whatever this is.” He flapped a hand between his torso and Malfoy, the gesture so huge that he nearly hit the top of the piano. 

Malfoy looked at him with bright eyes. “Whatever this is.”

“Whatever it is!” Harry repeated, voice creeping louder. “If you’re just happy to be a _little_ bit contrite but no more, then this whole thing can be a little bit over.”

Malfoy’s eyes were brighter again. He laughed. Harry hated it and he took a step back because he had a feeling he shouldn’t slam his hand down on top of the piano and he really, really wanted to. “Potter,” Malfoy said, sitting back, his hands bundled in his lap. “Is that what you want? For me to be extremely contrite? For me to prostate myself in front of you and beg for forgiveness? For me to change who I am entirely?”

“ _No_ ,” Harry snapped, tugging a hand through his hair and then: “ _Yes_. Some of that no. Some of it yes.”

Malfoy’s chin was sharp and pointed at him. “Then tell me which bits are yes and which are no.”

Harry buried both hands in his hair and took a few quick steps away from Malfoy. “Why? Why can’t you figure it out on your own? You’re not stupid.”

“I’m glad you don’t think I’m stupid,” Malfoy said, voice cool, “but I don’t actually need any external validation, thank you.”

Harry blinked at Malfoy several times, thoughts clambering over each other, every nasty one digging in deeper. He took a breath. He took another breath. “I need you to be honest with me,” he said, instead of shouting. His voice was loud, though. He knew he sort of sounded like he was shouting. Harry couldn’t help it. “That’s what I’m asking you for.”

“ _Merlin_ , Potter, you ask for so much.” Malfoy slammed the lid closed on the piano. Then he opened it and slammed it again. “Stop making me _mistreat_ my _possessions_.”

“I’m over here!” Harry said wildly. “How can I be doing that? You’re the one doing it.”

“You make me _sick._ ” Malfoy clearly wasn’t actually going to respond to the questions that Harry was actually asking. Malfoy clearly had other things in mind. “You’re so self-righteous. How can you actually stand there and ask me that? How do you need things spelled out for you, every second of every day? How are you this stupid? It’s a _wonder_ that you even manage to dress yourself in the mornings.” 

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here!”

“I _know_ you’re here, Potter. I can’t help but know.” Malfoy did not sound particularly pleased about it. In fact, it sounded like it pained him to know that Harry was there. He looked ill and sharp, looking at Harry with the kind of expression he couldn’t interpret. He propped his elbows onto the lid of the piano and buried his face in his hands. His shoulders didn’t slump despite the position. He looked tired but he still held himself like he was in a fight that he wasn’t prepared to lose. 

“What do you want from me, Potter? I’m extremely busy. I can’t do this. We _just_ talked about this.”

Harry really wanted to say that they hadn’t (because they hadn’t, not properly, not in any sort of way that soothed his soul) but instead he said, “How can you be busy? You’re on house arrest.”

The laugh that Malfoy let out sounded more like a shriek. “You _know_ I’m studying. You’re here _a lot_ , breathing down my neck, watching me do it! I’m fixing this dump up! I’m trying not to go out of my fucking mind, Potter.” 

Malfoy had got louder and louder until he nearly shrieked the words at Harry. Harry blinked at him, his mouth open. They both stared at each other, like soldiers on a battlefield. Harry curled his fingers in and then immediately unfurled them: he didn’t want Malfoy to think that he wanted to punch him. He didn’t even want to punch him; he wanted to understand him. He didn’t want to face off against Malfoy like he was on a battlefield, either. He was so tired of war.

“Okay,” Harry said, as if it answered anything Malfoy had said. “I know that. I know that, I swear. Look, I’m not really sure what’s going on here? I know I started it, I just — I just don’t know why I did either. And now you’re yelling a bit and I’m just kind of standing here, putting my foot in it, I guess. And you seem pretty upset.”

The sound that escaped Malfoy was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He looked disgusted for a moment as he pressed a hand over his mouth, fingers clawed as if he could force the noise back inside his body. “You’re a genius. Harry Potter, world renowned scholar.”

“Don’t be a dick.” Harry was very proud of himself for how neutral his tone was, something he knew from years of experience he wasn’t good at around Malfoy. 

Malfoy didn’t look like he admired Harry’s restraint. At the moment, he didn't look like he admired Harry’s anything. He still looked ill and sick and sharp and furious, blotches of colour high up on his cheeks as he breathed savagely and looked at Harry. “You’re _always_ being a dick,” he said.

Harry let the words hit and said, “I don’t really think that’s true. I just asked you —”

“You asked me something you should _know_ ,” Malfoy stood, raising a hand to tug at his hair. It looked like a painful motion; it looked like he wanted to pull the hair out at the root. Harry resisted the urge to go to him. “You should know this, Potter. You said — I _remember_ what you said, when I was upset about Father. You said you believed me. And now you’re saying that you don’t believe that I can be better than that, I guess. So if you don’t know how I feel about — about the last year, about anything, then why are you even here?”

It was a good question. Surely, that meant that Harry should have expected it, should have some answer prepared. When Malfoy turned to look at him, Harry found that every word seemed to evaporate immediately. His mind was empty, blank, his throat closed over. There were a hundred reasons that he was there and in the moment when Malfoy looked at him with huge, beseeching eyes, Harry couldn’t even think of one. 

“I see,” Malfoy said, finally. “I see.”

“It’s not like that,” Harry said, immediately. “It’s not —- you can’t see anything because —”

“You’re the one who can’t see anything,” Malfoy said sharply. “Only one of us is a speccy git.” 

“Great, yes, well done, I wear glasses.” Harry took a few quick steps back across the floor, back towards the piano and Malfoy. Malfoy moved, keeping the piano in between them. It was absurd. Every time that Harry took a step, so did he. Harry felt like he was in an old cartoon, that he was chasing Malfoy around a piano for the amusement of small children everywhere.“Look, can you stop that? I’m no dancer.”

“Yes, I _remember._ ” Malfoy did not stop. “I don’t want you near me.”

“Fine!” Harry said, throwing his hands in the air. “Fine! You don’t want me near you! But can you just listen to me? You’re going off on one and not listening to me.”

“I asked you a direct question and you didn’t respond,” Malfoy pointed out, logically, annoyingly. “That’s plenty for me.”

“No,” Harry said, shaking his head. “Listen, okay? I just want you to — I’ve heard you say you regret stuff, I guess. I just wanted you to say you wanted to keep changing. That’s it. That’s all. It’s not a lot. It _isn’t_ a lot. People want to change all the time.”

Malfoy’s nostrils flared. “So there’s something wrong with me?”

“Stop _picking a fight._ ” Harry heard himself shout. He cleared his throat and repeated, “Stop picking a fight. It’s not that simple. If — if you didn’t think there was something wrong with the way _you behaved_ and that group, we wouldn't even be here.”

“ _Exactly._ ” Malfoy rolled his eyes and turned away. The robe he was wearing flared out as he dropped down from the platform the piano stood on and sat on the edge. His hands flat on the platform, he bent forward, staring down at his shoes and scowling. “That’s my whole fucking point, Potter.”

Harry stared at his bent back and then swallowed. He shrugged, even though Malfoy couldn’t see him. “Could you not just have said that?”

There was a moment when he honestly thought Malfoy would turn around and scream at him then. His back was rigid, the tension in his body unmistakeable, and then it eased somewhat. It did not disappear. “I am saying it. You just never listen to me.”

Harry did not think that was true and he thought Malfoy should know that. “That’s not true,” he said.

Malfoy laughed and Harry realised that he didn’t believe him. While the other boy had sounded furious and angry moments before, he sounded sad now, weary, like the anger had drained his energy. He looked smaller too, which was ridiculous because he was taller than Harry. Shoving his hands into his pockets, Harry rocked back and forth for a moment and then came to a decision. A few quick steps and he was beside Malfoy, waiting for a moment to see how he reacted before he dropped down beside him. Malfoy sat, tense and unmoving. He did not shift his gaze to look at Harry. Harry decided he was fine with that. 

“It isn’t true. I can never not listen to you. It’s very hard not to. You talk all the time — no, shut up, you really do. It’s constant. You can’t walk into this house without you talking, but it’s not new.” Harry shrugged, flattening the palms of his hands on the platform. He took care not to brush Malfoy’s hands with his, although their fingers were close. “You talked all the time in school too and you’re _loud_ and I always hear you. I listen. I swear, Malfoy, I listen. I just — sometimes I don’t think we talk the same language. Sometimes I’m not sure the words that you use mean what I think they mean.”

Malfoy was silent for a moment. Harry hated the silence. He twisted in it, chafed at it, thought desperately about disturbing it again and then Malfoy said, “That was surprisingly astute of you, Potter.”

“I can be astute,” Harry said, face warm. “I’m not daft or anything.”

“Sure, of course not,” Malfoy said, softly. “I don’t really — maybe you’re not wrong.” He looked sheepish as he said it, like he hated admitting Harry was right. “I can’t think of any way I could have been clearer and you weren’t getting it.”

Harry tilted his head and studied Malfoy for a moment. Malfoy was still avoiding his gaze. Harry didn’t really think he deserved that, but then he didn’t really know how Malfoy felt. He took a breath and a leap and covered Malfoy’s hand with his. Immediately, the remaining tension in Malfoy’s shoulders disappeared. “Maybe you can just answer my questions straightforwardly?” Harry suggested, with a smile. 

Malfoy sniffed. “Don’t be so ridiculous, Potter.” Still, he turned his hand so his palm was against Harry’s and stared down at it. “You just have to not ask stupid questions.” He seemed to hear himself and then frowned, “Or we can work on the language thing, I suppose.” 

Harry was afraid of his grin, afraid of the giddy burst in his chest. He was afraid of how quickly it had come, how thoroughly it chased away what had come before. He laced their fingers together and then brought Malfoy’s hand to his mouth, brushing his lips against his knuckles. Malfoy stared at him, eyes bright with reverence and Harry smiled. “Okay.”

For the next few days, Harry felt like there was a shard in his chest, a sharp glass piece that somehow didn’t hurt. It was pure joy, a happiness he couldn’t ignore no matter what. He was always aware of its presence. Every time he moved, he felt it. Every time he breathed, he felt it. Everything he did seemed to spark against the shard, like it was flint, like it was setting him on fire. He could feel himself smiling all the time, although he didn’t know why exactly. He couldn’t figure it out. He had argued with Malfoy, they had shouted at each other, they had clashed and then — then he had held Malfoy’s hand and kissed him, softly, sweetly, tugging him back over to the piano and watching him intently at he’d encouraged Malfoy to play for him. 

Malfoy’s face had been bright red, his whole neck a flush and Harry had looked at it and tasted it and he’d been walking on air ever since. 

He could feel himself starting to annoy people. Ron had thought it was funny at first and then blatantly told him, on the third morning, “Christ, I can’t even look at you in the mornings, you make me sick.” Then again, Ron had never been good with mornings, so Harry didn’t let it faze him. The barista at the coffee shop he kept ducking into commented on his mood and grinned at him, like they were sharing a secret. There was a picture in the _Prophet_ of Harry smiling as he walked down Diagon Alley, his hands sunk into his pockets, the wind ruffling his hair. Harry looked at picture-Harry making eye contact with the photographer and realised that the smile didn’t even completely disappear even then. 

He wasn’t sure if that was good but it still made him feel lighter. 

It apparently made Ron decide that something was really wrong. 

“Has Malfoy dosed you with something maybe?” Ron asked that night, dumping a lot of pasta into a pot of boiling water. He considered the pot and then added more. 

Harry rolled his eyes. “We haven’t really been around the potions lately.”

“Yes, but maybe he did while you were sleeping or something.” Ron added more pasta.

Harry frowned, pulled a face. “Why would I be sleeping? I’m there in the middle of the day.”

Seemingly content with having enough pasta in the pot to feed a small army, Ron set down the bag and turned. His face was a picture: pinched and wary and earnest all at once. His eyebrows were drawn down but it was clear he was trying to smile and look encouraging. All together, it kind of made him look like he really needed to take a dump. “Well, you know,” Ron said, waving a hand. “After the — after.”

“After the after?” Harry laughed, shoving Ron out of the way to check the vegetables roasting in the oven. “That doesn’t make sense.”

There was silence as Harry turned some of the vegetables, the only sound the faint shouting from the next door neighbour’s children as they ran around their garden. Harry grinned just hearing it and Ron sighed and then said, “After the, you know. Sex.”

Harry stood up so fast that he nearly knocked the pot off the ring. He turned to look at Ron with a gaping mouth. “Ron!”

Ron’s face was red and he shuffled his feet, looking into the corner of the kitchen and setting his jaw before he looked back again. “I’m your friend, Harry,” he said, reaching out and patting Harry’s arm. “I’m your friend and I’m happy if you’re happy, but I don’t want to know about —”

“We haven’t had sex!”

“Oh my god,” Ron said faintly. He closed his eyes, looking pained. “Oh this is even worse. I thought — I thought if he didn’t drug you, maybe that’s why you’re all…” Trailing off, Ron kept flapping his hands around. He was honestly well on his way to taking flight at this rate.

Harry could feel his whole body flushing. Embarrassment swept through him, hot and rich, and he moved away from the oven and from Ron. Maybe the sources of heat were making it worse. Maybe he just needed to get away. Laughing a little wildly, he went to stand by the sink and the open window over it. “Ron, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well, I don’t love it either!” Ron said. “But I will. Because you’re Harry, and I’m Ron, and you’re important to me and I want to be here for you.”

Sometimes, Harry loved Ron so much he wasn’t sure how to handle it. He wasn’t sure what he had done to make Ron love him either. Harry wasn’t sure what it was that made his friend love _him_ this much. Harry’s embarrassment was warm and fresh, but the wave that swept through him this time was gratitude and love and a hundred other things that pushed the tide of embarrassment back. Before, when he was small and young and alone, he had never thought he would get this: somebody who cared about him like Ron clearly did. Harry had to take a breath before he spoke. 

“You are here for me,” Harry said, smiling at him. “I know you are. But Malfoy’s not — he’s not drugging me. I just genuinely don’t think he would do that — now.”

The ‘now’ was important. Harry wouldn’t forget who he had been. He couldn’t forget what he had done. Harry looked down at the ground and then at Ron, who watched him with a careful, assessing gaze. 

“And you’re not sleeping with him?”

It was on the tip of Harry’s tongue to say not yet but he couldn’t bring himself to. Instead, he just pulled a face and said, “Ron, if I have to talk to you, I promise I will.”

“Okay.” There was a sigh that almost sounded like relief and then, “I’m not sure if I can give you any tips or whatever but it’s bound to be not that different, right?”

Harry nearly choked on his tongue. “Ron, I don’t know if that’s true.”

There was a light in Ron’s eyes that looked almost dangerous as he said, “Well, you don’t know everything me and Hermione’ve got up to.”

“ _No_ ,” Harry said immediately, picking up the nearest thing to throw at Ron that he could. Thankfully, it was a spoon and Ron easily ducked out of the way, laughing uproariously. Harry’s laughter joined his moments later. 

“You were smiling in the Prophet,” Malfoy said when Harry next saw him. Harry breezed into the kitchen, setting a bag down on the huge table. Malfoy glanced at it and then at Harry, who frowned at him. “No, not like that. You were smiling in the Prophet.”

“What’re you doing reading that rubbish?”

“Some of us have to read the news, because we aren’t the news,” Malfoy said with a sniff, tone haughty. 

Harry rolled his eyes and walked across the kitchen until he was standing closer to him. Malfoy had a veritable library spread out around him, books propped open in a semi-circle and piles of parchment everywhere. He had an array of quills laid out too, all with different coloured feathers. Harry knew he couldn’t have been that frustrated yet because none of them were crushed. He picked up one of the quills and gently ran its feathers along Malfoy’s jawline, lightly tickling him. Malfoy swatted him away. 

“You are the news,” Harry said. Malfoy opened his mouth to protest but then decided against it. Harry grinned, still tracing the quill against Malfoy’s jaw. A moment later, he leaned forward, dropping the quill, placing his fingers against the place where jaw met ear and coaxing Malfoy’s face around. “You’re the only thing I’m interested in, anyway.”

Malfoy turned red and then grabbed for Harry, fisting his hand in Harry’s t-shirt and pulling him closer with a vicious tug. It was an awkward angle because Malfoy barely moved, turning from the waist only as their mouths met in a searing kiss. It was an awkward angle but Harry didn’t care, couldn’t care, as Malfoy kissed him so fiercely that it felt like he was stealing his breath. Harry pressed his fingers tight into Malfoy’s skin and then ducked down further, sliding his hands back into Malfoy’s hair. 

“Move,” he said to him in a voice he didn’t recognise as his own, a voice that sounded deeper and more hoarse. Malfoy nodded, scooting the chair back and Harry was in his lap, pressing himself close as Malfoy claimed his mouth again. Malfoy was fire under Harry’s hands, somehow both pale as snow and burning up. Harry wrapped his arms around Malfoy’s neck and moved, lifted himself up a little and then ground down. 

Malfoy groaned into Harry’s mouth and Harry grinned. He felt Malfoy smile back, the curve of his smile pressing against Harry’s mouth, and Harry pulled back to kiss along it, grinding down again. 

“Potter,” Malfoy said, voice jagged and gasping. “Potter, this is indecent. In my own kitchen? How dare you.” He was laughing and his eyes were dancing. Harry loved to see it, how flushed he looked, how happy. Harry grinned widely into his face and moved again, seeking friction, watching the way it made Malfoy’s eyes spark. 

“Maybe I’m not a decent sort,” Harry said. He pressed a kiss to Malfoy’s cheekbone and Malfoy’s eyelashes fluttered closed for a moment. Harry had the fleeting thought that he looked innocent, which was quickly chased away by how hard and greedy Malfoy’s hands were, pressing harshly on Harry’s hips, disappearing into his t-shirt, encouraging Harry to _move._

Malfoy let out a choked laugh when Harry did. “You’re the exact dictionary definition of a decent sort, Potter.” 

Harry did not feel like the dictionary definition of a decent sort at all. He felt reckless and wild, grinding into Malfoy, balancing himself on the chair and pressing kisses down Malfoy’s jawline. He pulled back to capture Malfoy’s mouth in a kiss, his hands still buried in Malfoy’s hair, holding him in place. He didn’t think he needed to, though. It was as if Malfoy was trying to fold his whole body around Harry. His hands were on Harry’s hips now, nails digging viciously in and legs twined around Harry’s. Everytime Harry moved, Malfoy clutched at him. It made Harry’s heart sing with euphoria and adrenaline. It made him feel like he was diving off a cliff. 

“Malfoy,” Harry said, looking for words that disappeared completely when Malfoy moved again, pulling Harry down to him as Malfoy ground up. The air left Harry’s lungs in a rush and he dropped his forehead against Malfoy’s shoulder. He wanted more. He knew it with a startling clarity and Harry moved his hands, dragging them out of Malfoy’s hair, and seeking the warmth under Malfoy’s shirt. He pressed sloppy, open mouthed kisses along Malfoy’s throat, sucking a bruise onto his collarbone, biting lightly at it. Malfoy groaned and Harry felt heat and pressure and the blinding need of release coil through him. 

They were so very clothed. They were so very clothed and here, grinding against each other in the middle of Malfoy’s kitchen, with Malfoy’s schoolwork spread behind Harry. Harry clutched at Malfoy, pressed his face against his shoulder and then said to his skin, “I’m going to do something.”

“Whatever, yeah,” Malfoy said, in that sloppy way that told Harry he was losing whatever control he had. He sounded almost desperate as he said, “Do whatever you want.”

Grinning, Harry nipped lightly at Malfoy’s collarbone. At some point, he’d opened Malfoy’s shirt and he moved back, one thumb brushing lightly against a nipple. Malfoy hissed in a breath and Harry grinned, dragging the other hand down, letting it dance over Malfoy’s stomach, touch feather light. Malfoy was somehow both panting and barely breathing, his chest rising and falling, his eyes glued to Harry. 

If he had thought about his actions maybe he would have been nervous, but Harry acted on instinct and he had good instincts. He knew that. He trusted his instincts as he reached into Malfoy’s trousers, seeking hot, hard flesh and grasping it. Malfoy let out a keening noise and stared at Harry with eyes that were mostly black now, pupils large. Harry grinned and leaned forward, kissing Malfoy deeply as he started to move his hand. His touch was too soft at first, tentative and unsure. For a second, Harry remembered he’d never _done_ this, not with another man and then Malfoy dragged his mouth away from Harry’s and said, “For Merlin’s sake, Potter, _harder_.”

It was all Harry needed. He laughed and kissed Malfoy, gripping him tighter and squeezing the base of Malfoy’s dick. Malfoy hissed and Harry laughed again, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose as he started to pump his hand properly.. “You’re not the boss of me, Malfoy,” Harry said. 

“Do you know what?” Malfoy said, panting, gasping, his voice shaking with every word. “I think you can call me Draco.”

“I,” Harry said, startled. He wasn’t startled enough to stop, though, and instead he watched Malfoy as he flung his head back, watched a bead of sweat roll down his neck, and gather in the valley of his collarbone. Harry could feel the shake of Malfoy’s thighs, could almost taste how close he was to coming in the air. He leaned forward and licked away the sweat, pumping Malfoy harder, pressing kisses along his neck. He could feel Malfoy tightening underneath him, the build up of pleasure and heat in his body reflecting Harry’s need. Harry dragged his teeth along the line of Malfoy’s jaw and whispered in his ear, “Okay. Come on, Draco. You can come. I’d like you to come.”

Malfoy — Draco —- did. Harry felt it on his hand and laughed, his forehead against Malfoy’s, delight radiating through him. His hand was covered in Malfoy’s come and after barely a second of thought, he reached into his own trousers, pushing open his jeans and pressing them down to grab himself. Harry watched his own hand grab his cock, watched as he started to work himself, heard his voice murmur things to Malfoy that he barely comprehended. He heard Malfoy murmur something back, a lot of things which sounded like endearments even as he said, “You’re an idiot, Potter.”

“You can call me Harry.”

“Fuck off, you-can-call-me-Harry,” Draco said and then he was pushing Harry’s hand out of the way, hesitating for a moment before his long, cool fingers wrapped around Harry’s cock. There was a moment where Harry glanced up at him, catching his eye. They breathed together and then Draco started to move, a tight grip, a relentless pace. Harry didn’t need much coaxing. He had already been nearly there and Draco’s hand gripping him, chasing him towards orgasm, was almost too much. His eyes fluttered close and he came, spilling over as his hips bucked and he bit his lip hard to try to press down on the noise. 

They sat like that for a moment, both breathing harshly, the sound mingling. Harry shifted to wrap his arm back around Draco’s neck and pressed his forehead back against Draco’s. He knew he was breathing, but he barely felt like he was. He knew he still had a body because he could see it, but he barely felt it. He felt buoyant. He felt like smoothing one hand (the cleaner one, naturally) through Draco’s hair so he did. 

Harry noticed Draco was studying him, his pale eyes watching Harry’s movements with interest. For a moment, he let the other boy and then self-consciousness peeked in. “What?” 

Draco shook his head. “Nothing important. It doesn’t matter.”

Harry tucked Draco’s hair behind his ears. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Draco said, smiling. He fisted a hand in Harry’s t-shirt again and pulled him forward, kissing him and kissing him and kissing him. Harry let himself be thoroughly kissed. 

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” Draco asked later, his hair brushed again, clothes straightened. He asked it casually, but his shoulders were stiff. He didn’t look at Harry, instead staring down at whatever he was writing. 

Harry watched him for a moment, flipping through one of the books he’d pilfered from the library, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah,” he said, softly. “Yeah, I’d really like that.”

It was harder to hold onto lightness when Hermione called.

Her head appeared in the fireplace shortly after eleven o’clock at night and Harry could see the way that disappointment and fatigue had settled into the lines on her face even through the flames. Ron sat beside him and tensed, just slightly. Harry watched his friend smile, act jovial, grin, and keep his hands curled around his mug’s handle so tightly his knuckles shone bone-white.

“We miss you,” Harry said, after a few minutes of exchanging hellos and questions about the weather and Australia in general. “I think Ron’s ready to build a shrine.”

“Oi,” Ron said lightly, shoving Harry to the side despite the fact he didn’t deny it. 

Hermione laughed; it sounded tired. “I miss you too. I wouldn’t — I wish I could come home.” Her voice sounded small, lost, girlish and young in a way that Harry hated to hear. It reminded him too much of nights spent in a tent. It reminded him too much of death. 

He blinked to try to dispel it, frowning deeply at the coffee table. He could hear Ron talking in a low voice and he tried to listen to it, tried to pull himself away from a swirling vortex of thoughts he didn’t want to go down. He couldn’t go down. This wasn’t about him; this was about Hermione, who was literally halfway around the world and trying desperately to try to right something she felt she might have done wrong. Shaking himself back to alertness, he stared into the fire, waited for Ron to finish his assurances and then heard him ask, “How is it going? With your parents?”

There was a moment of silence and Hermione chewed on her lip before she shrugged. Through fire, it looked exhausted. “It’s really hard,” she said finally. “I wish that I — I don’t regret doing it. I _don’t._ I just wish I knew more about it. I wish I was better.”

“Hermione, you’re wonderful,” Harry said immediately. “You’re the best.”

“Smartest witch in the world,” Ron said, leaning forward, his expression wide open and earnest.

Hermione laughed bitterly. “What good is being smart if I can’t undo what I’ve done?”

The question sat uncomfortably in the air, the sharp tang of it invading Harry’s senses. It made his stomach turn but he couldn’t let Hermione know that. She’d been there for him so much; he was going to be there for her. Moving onto his knees properly, he shuffled closer to the fire and said, “You’re going to, Hermione. I promise. I bet you’ve already done more than you think you have, because you always downplay that, and I know you’re going to get them back.”

Hermione stared at him and blinked harshly a few times, trying to push away tears. “What if I can’t?”

“You can,” Ron said, now beside Harry and pressing their shoulders together. United. They were going to be together through this, too, like they always had been. “We’re here for you. I’ll ask at the Ministry — I’ll ask whatever you need. I know some of the Obliviators now.”

To Harry, this sounded like a stretch considering mostly what Ron seemed to know was where they worked and that the Aurors had to call them to help sometimes. To Hermione, it was clearly a comfort. She gave him a watery smile, fondness and affection shining out of her face as she whispered, “Thanks. I love you guys.”

“We love you too,” Ron said. Harry opened his mouth to say something, found he couldn’t, and nodded instead. 

They kept talking, lulls and echoes of previous conversation, trying to claw their way towards some normality that seemed far off. When Hermione said goodbye, mindful of the time, telling Ron to go straight to bed he promised he would. Still, when the call cut off both boys tumbled backwards, backs against the coffee table staring into the fire. 

Ron sighed, heavy enough that it was a surprise the flames didn’t waver. “Shit, mate. What are we gonna do?”

Harry looked at where Hermione’s face had been and swallowed against any panic. “Whatever we can, Ron. Like we said. We’ll just help how we can. We’ll be here for her, too, in case she needs us.”

“What if they don’t remember?”

Harry shook his head. “Not happening. You know Hermione. She’ll move mountains to help them.”

“Yeah. Yeah okay.”

“We should go to bed.”

“Yeah. Yeah okay.” Ron didn’t move though, so neither did Harry. Instead he pressed his leg against Ron’s and sat there, staring into the fire, trying to comfort and be comforted, trying to hold onto the flicker of hope. Hermione had found her parents and was with them. There were just more steps in the process. They could do this, like they’d done everything before, like they’d always managed to. They could do this because they had always done things that seemed impossible. 

It just somehow felt even less possible when there was no villain to beat. Harry hated that. He wanted something concrete that he could destroy, an enemy to pursue rather than the tangled web of the memory that he didn’t understand. He squeezed his eyes shut and shuffled closer to Ron and wished, momentarily and fiercely, for a normal life, with normal problems. 

Ron was true to his word and gathered information from Oblivaitors, hunting them down and flashing them smiles. Harry considered doing it too, leaning on his name and his history. He thought about walking into the office and saying, “My name is Harry Potter, I saved the world, I need your help.” The thought of it made his insides shift with unease but the idea of seeing Hermione looking like she had forever made him feel worse. He wanted to help. He _needed_ to help. 

Ron did not need his help. Ron had his own name, his own reputation, his earnest, open manner. He rushed into the house one day, chattering excitedly, waving a stack of parchment and several books at Harry. It took him several long minutes to calm him down, to draw him back and coax answers out of him. 

Sitting at the kitchen table, Harry flipped through the first book. He didn’t understand a word. He reached for the second. He didn’t understand it at all. He reached for the third. 

“Ron,” he said finally. “What does this mean?”

Ron was staring down at the books in front of him, a deep furrow between his brow which remained there when he looked up at Harry. He looked a bit ill, paler than usual with his freckles standing out. “I dunno,” he said. “This is all super advanced charms stuff.”

Harry nodded, humming a little in the back of his throat. He knew he wasn’t stupid, no matter what the niggling voice in the back of his head said. He wasn’t stupid but he was definitely better at practical work, at seeing things done and then replicating them. Staring at books when he wasn’t sure what half the words meant wasn’t going to help Hermione. 

“Do you think we should just send her these?” he asked finally, after he’d picked up another one and found little that made much sense to him. 

“Maybe.” Ron frowned. “I kind of borrowed them with an end date.”

“We’ll ask them to move it,” Harry said. “We’ll explain what’s happening and they’ll have to move it.”

Ron nodded, looking thoughtful. “Can I say ‘I am the great Ronald Weasley and I command you move this date?’”

Harry snorted. “Mate, you can say whatever you want.”

“And then they moved the date,” Harry told Narcissa, spreading jam on another scone. It was his third. He shouldn’t have been eating it but he was anyway. The day had been long and miserable, the December cold biting into his bones. Harry hadn’t minded it so much because it gave him an excuse to run with the contingent of dogs he had amassed. Word had got out that “the nice Potter boy” would take any dog out for a walk and Harry had started to almost draft a rota for himself of Hermione’s neighbourhood dogs that would fall into his care for a couple of hours every day. He thought it was good for him: he would run and run, letting the dogs chase him, chasing the dogs, letting himself be lost in the motions and blending into the landscape wherever he took them. It calmed him, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t sometimes freezing. He enjoyed leaving them home and arriving at the Malfoy’s, red in the face from the winter wind, shivering slightly, knowing there were scones and tea awaiting him. Narcissa very rarely disappointed. 

She smiled slightly as she looked at him, the kind of hidden smile he never would have noticed if he hadn’t spent so much time with her. Her eyebrows were drawn up. “Of course they moved the date, Harry,” she said, sipping at her tea.

“They didn’t have to. It was really good of them. They basically told Ron he could just bring them back whenever and that’d be fine.” Harry’s grin was huge and boyish, directed towards first Narcissa and then Malfoy — Draco — who were both sitting in the library. They shared a look and then glanced back at him. 

“Who do you think you are?” Draco asked, but there was no bite to the question. It just was. 

Harry blinked at him. “What?”

“Who do you think you are? Who do you think he is? Of _course_ they did whatever you wanted.”

Harry blinked again and then frowned deeply, his nose wrinkling. “I don’t think that’s why.”

“It is,” Narcissa said, firmly. “That’s how things work. Your friend has a very important name and did a very important thing. The Obliviator office will be happy to work with him because of it. That’s power.”

Harry had never liked that word. It never sat well for them, because it had never meant anything _good_ before. Everything that had gone wrong in his life, Harry was pretty sure had gone wrong because of other people’s desperate desire for more power. The thirst and the half-demented drive to accrue more power and learn how to hoard it. He heard the word ‘power’ and Harry’s stomach dropped and twisted, blood rushing to his ears. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and when he looked at the Malfoys he could see they were regarding him with almost identical expressions. 

He shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t think —”

“It’s not a dirty word, Harry,” Draco said. “It isn’t. There’s always power, no matter what. People always want it, or have it, or they don’t. It’s in every interaction we ever have.”

“What?” 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Not in a bad way.”

“Some people are awfully hung up on power,” Narcissa said. She spoke from the chair across from Harry but she sounded far away. It was a tone of voice Harry didn’t hear often and, when he did, it tended to be about Lucius. She always looked different, her gaze turning blurred, her head tilted towards the windows. Harry looked at her and bit his lip. He didn’t want to look at Draco at the same time. He always looked paler and younger when his mother did this. “They let it burn everything else up in them. It can erode people’s sense of self and warp it, although this only means that they weren’t strong enough to survive its lure. They can be weak.”

There was a heavy silence that swept through the library instantly, a wall of ice appearing between mother and son. Harry looked at Narcissa and then Draco, whose face had gone completely still. Stillness was, perhaps, the worst thing when it came from Draco. 

He suddenly sprung up from his seat, spine as straight as a ruler. “I have to go.”

Narcissa blinked at him, ice itself, and inclined her head. Harry stared at her and reached for Draco as he passed by, fingers open. He didn’t grab for his hand. He didn’t know what stopped him but he couldn’t make himself and his fingers brushed ineffectually against the side of Draco’s hip. Harry thought his movements stuttered for a moment but it could have been his imagination because he was out of the library before Harry could collect himself to speak again. 

“He’s upset,” he said finally, when it became clear that Narcissa wasn’t going to speak.

She made a noise that sounded like a hum but she was staring at the library door and looked wan. There was a strange look on her face that had crept in at the edges of the icy expression, burning the edges off enough that she looked more human now. Narcissa sniffed and then flicked a glance towards Harry. 

“I know. But he needs to know that.”

Harry found he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t talk to Draco about his father. He hated the subject, tried to pull away from it as much as possible. Harry wasn’t sure whether he had it in him to be understanding. Draco had told him once that that was okay but Harry hadn’t wanted to press it. “He seems to really care about his dad.”

The laugh that Narcissa let out was brittle. “You misspeak, Harry. He idolised him. He always did. I — I feel like I should have served them both better, managed their expectations more.”

“Well,” said Harry, awkwardly, “you know what they say about hindsight.”

“Of course.” Narcissa clutched her hands tightly in her lap and then sighed. She looked down at the scones in front of her and picked one up. Harry watched her carefully and methodically pick the blueberries out of the top. “I am not feeling particularly hungry. You can have these for your friend. Pass on my well wishes, of course.”

Harry nodded. He didn’t think to speak. He didn’t think he needed to, considering that Narcissa was barely looking at him. She held the muffin in her hand as she stood, excusing herself. Harry was left in the library, staring at the assortment of scones and the half-full cups of tea. He tried to grasp what had happened, how quickly everything had changed — less than ten minutes ago, the thought had been curling at the edges of his mind that he loved how warm the Malfoy’s library was, that he appreciated how it soothed a part of him he couldn’t give a name to. 

The warmth had thoroughly disappeared now.

He made a noise in the back of his throat and then cleared it. There was no point feeling sorry for himself. This wasn’t about him. 

Making quick work of wrapping the scones in napkins, Harry slipped them into his jacket pockets and then stood up. He didn’t know where to go. It bothered him, the idea of leaving both of the Malfoy’s like this. It bothered him, thinking of the expression on Draco’s face and how quickly he had left. 

It only took a moment of remembrance before Harry sprang to action. He couldn’t leave, not with things as they were, not without checking in. He shrugged on the jacket and started to wind his way through the Manor, checking every hiding place of Draco’s he had ever come across. He started with his bedroom, sure that it wouldn’t unveil itself for him and startled when it did. The door sprang into existence in front of Harry and Harry stared at it for a minute, his mouth open. The wood twinkled at him and Harry tried not to search for meaning in its shine. 

He didn’t have time to do that. 

Instead, he pressed open the door, clearing his throat as an announcement of his presence. It didn’t matter, because Draco wasn’t there. He wasn’t in the kitchen, or the piano room. He wasn’t in the second library or the guest parlour, or the small alcove Harry knew exclusively because sometimes Draco dragged him into it, pressing kisses along his jaw, his throat, his sternum, and lately his hips. Harry lingered there for a moment, feeling strangely bereft at standing there without Draco, and then moved on. 

The sunroom was empty. The study and the second study and the small study were all empty too. Harry hated how many rooms the Malfoy house had.

“I hate how many rooms this stupid house has,” Harry said to his reflection, which looked just as annoyed as he felt. He scowled and his reflection scowled back. Behind him, someone cleared their throat. Jumping, Harry turned to see Blighter, the house elf, looking at him with the expression of someone who was about to do something they found physically painful. 

“What, can I ask, are you searching for?”

Harry shuffled his feet. “Draco.”

“Master Malfoy is in the gardens, by the fourth greenhouse,” Blighter said and then disappeared with a crack. 

Harry hated that he knew which one was the fourth greenhouse. He studied his reflection for another moment, wondering when he had become this person, and then he turned and tramped out onto the grounds. As he walked he had to keep reminding himself not to put his hands in his pockets and risk destroying the scones. As he walked, he tried not to dwell on Draco’s straight spine and the fact he had no idea what to say. 

The greenhouse came into view. Draco’s spine was still straight, somehow, even though he was carefully watering the plants inside. His shoulders were high and tense and Harry stood and stared at him for a moment before he walked forwards. 

“Hi,” he said. Draco jumped and spun. Water sprayed out, splashing Harry’s chest, before Draco ended the spell. He looked flustered and surprised, pink faintly rising up his neck. 

“What’re you doing here?” he demanded. 

“I thought I’d come see how you were.” Harry looked down at his t-shirt, which was now soaking, and lifted it out from his body. Water dripped onto the ground and he frowned and then shook his head, letting his shirt go and looking at Draco. Draco was staring at him like he didn’t know what to do. “You left a bit abruptly.”

Draco’s face was so pointed that it was easy for shadows to appear. They chased each other across his face now. “I did not see the point of remaining there much longer. Dry yourself, Potter, you look like one of your dogs.”

“Harry,” Harry said mildly. He lifted his wand out and cast a quick charm which seemed to mollify Draco somewhat. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“ _No_. Don’t be so ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous. People talk about stuff that upsets them all the time.”

Draco sniffed. “Not me. I’m English.”

“So am I.” Harry moved closer, brushing past Draco, looking at the rows of plants that he had been watering. He couldn’t remember what they were called. He wished he could, so he could say something funny, or clever, or interesting about them. Sometimes Harry didn’t feel very funny, or clever, or interesting. Sometimes he wished he could say what he wanted to Draco and have it be the right thing. He turned his chin to look at him, studying his profile for a moment. 

“You hardly talk about things, Potter. It’s your least favourite activity, talking about emotions. It probably ranks down below getting flayed, but above being cannibalised.”

Harry kept studying Draco, noting the flare of a sneer, the harsh amusement on his face. He recognised the signs of the boy he had known for so many years, the visage of the bully who had been determined to make other people’s lives hell. He recognised it but now it seemed like a facade, a mask that Draco was pulling on to hide the lost look in his eyes. Harry reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind Draco’s ear; Draco stared at him in open-mouthed wonder. 

Smiling softly, Harry turned and cupped Draco’s face in his hands. “I know. But if you want to talk, I’m here.”

Draco blinked at him several times, astonishment shining from his face. He stared at Harry, clearly searching for something although Harry wasn’t sure what. He just knew that Draco clearly must have decided he found it, because finally he swallowed and raised his own hands to cover Harry’s. “I don’t think that’s very appropriate,” he said, softly. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, Harry.”

“Sod appropriate. I’m here. If you want me to be or whatever.”

Draco laughed. He pressed his hands tighter over Harry’s and laughed again before gently moving Harry’s hands away from his face. “Don’t be stupid, Harry,” he said. Harry thought it was an odd thing to say — he didn’t know what he was being stupid about — but he didn’t get a chance to ask before Draco shrugged and said, “My mother thinks I’m weak and pathetic.”

He clearly tried to say it like it didn’t hurt, an attempt at breeziness which fell pitifully and woefully short. Every word was clearly wrenched out of him: Draco looked lost, and young, and furious about it. Harry wanted to hold his hand. 

“Draco, you know that’s not true.”

“It’s what she said.”

“It definitely isn’t.” Harry wanted to hold Draco’s hand still. He reached out and did, linking their fingers together and ignoring the look on Draco’s face as he did. “Your mum wasn’t talking about you. Your mum loves you. She thinks the world of you.”

Draco barked out a laugh. “Well, she thinks I _was_ weak then. She thinks my dad was weak and pathetic and she thinks I’m just like him.”

“She loves you,” Harry said again. 

“That doesn’t mean that she can’t think I’m _useless_ , Harry, honestly.” Draco opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, his expression sharpening in that particular way it did when he wanted to be mean. Harry lifted their joined hands and clamped it over Draco’s mouth.

“Don’t say anything until you’ve thought about what you’re going to say,” Harry said sternly. Draco made several indignant noises and then firmly licked Harry’s hand until he removed it from over his mouth. Wrinkling his nose, Harry wiped his hand on his jeans and Draco laughed at that, a bright, sharp sound which burst through the air. 

“You’re an ass, Harry.”

“Whatever. I meant it. Whatever you were gonna say, just don’t do it until you’ve thought about it and you decide whether you really mean it.”

“I wouldn’t have,” Draco said, churlishly. “I was — it’s not important. The important thing is that I know she loves me, but I — I let her down a lot. Because I wanted something stupid.”

Harry tilted his head and stared at Draco for a moment. Draco pulled away from the attention, scowling at Harry, wrapping his arms around himself as he turned away to look outside of the greenhouse. While he studied the landscape, Harry studied Draco and tried to think of how best to get through to him. He wished he was Hermione, who was clever, or Ron, who had a tendency to be insightful and sometimes knew exactly what to say. 

He wished he was someone who knew what to say to chase away Draco’s doubts. 

Opening his mouth, he said, “Yeah, Draco. You did want something stupid but I don’t think your mum is sitting in the house thinking you let her down. I think she’s probably thinking that she feels bad that _you_ feel bad. That seems much more like her.”

“She meant those things. What she said. She meant that people let the desire for power consume them and it obliterates everything else.” Draco glared at him and added, “But that doesn’t mean it’s always bad.”

“Shut up about that, Malfoy,” Harry said sharply, waving a dismissive hand. “I don’t care about that. We’re not talking about me. Yeah, she meant them but you’re an idiot if you think she meant _you’re_ obliterated or whatever. Of course you’re not.”

“I could have been.” Draco was standing straighter, frowning hard at Harry. Harry frowned back at him.

“Yeah but you weren’t, were you? You’re here. You’re very you. You’re very uniquely yourself and whatever happened — that’s not you now. You’ve told me that and I believe you.” Harry stepped closer, nearly treading on the toes of Draco’s shoes. “You are yourself. You’re still here. She didn’t mean that.”

Draco stared at him for a moment, quiet. Their breath mingled together and Harry looked up, counting Draco’s eyelashes so he wouldn’t talk. He could tell that Draco didn’t want him to talk. The silence felt restful and necessary as Draco looked and looked at him and then his fingers were in Harry’s hair and he was tugging at it, urging Harry up to capture his mouth in a kiss which felt like comfort. Harry could feel Draco seeking and yearning, and he gave and he gave and he gave, kissing him back like he was drowning. 

When he pulled back, Draco pressed a kiss to the tip of Harry’s nose and then his forehead. “You are intolerable, Potter,” he said and it sounded like something else. 

Harry grinned and headbutted him gently. “Go talk to your mum, you idiot.”

Christmas was fast approaching, time suddenly hurtling forward with a speed that robbed Harry of his breath. Of course, that could have just been the frosty chill that had settled over everything. When Harry took the dogs out now he had to bundle up warm, pulling a hat down low over his ears, making sure he had gloves shoved into his pockets just in case. It was midway through December, late in the evening, when Harry left his last dog back with its rightful owner, waved off the offer of a cup of tea and wandered home. 

He liked what he was doing. Several of the neighbours had tried to pay him but Harry repeatedly refused. It didn’t seem right, when they were helping him, but very few of them seemed quite content with that. Instead, they plied Harry with gifts that he couldn’t refuse without looking rude: there were teabags and loose leaf teas, hot chocolate, shop bought biscuits, homemade biscuits, sandwiches, leftovers. Harry was drowning in food and brought it all home to a grateful Ron or kept some back, bringing them to Draco. He rarely shared with Narcissa, who had looked extremely confused when he offered her food in her own house. 

He had told Draco how bad he felt taking payment and Draco, of course, had laughed at him before he said, “You’re an idiot, Harry.” He had turned serious and then said, “But you really like that sort of thing and I think you need to pay attention to that.” His look had been significant. Harry had pretended he understood what Draco meant. 

Walking slowly home, Harry thought maybe he did know what Draco had meant. Harry, who had always had some form of a purpose, had pulled away from the paths that Hermione laid out, that Ron wanted. Harry had ducked letters and avoided meetings and gave his best shot at not giving his best. He had wanted to relax, to settle, to try and just be himself. Turning down a residential street, glancing at the soft glow of living room windows and trying not to stare, Harry thought maybe he wasn’t good at just settling. 

He liked moving around. He liked being outside and having things to do with his time, but it had been nice to spend the last few months walking peoples dogs, helping them with their pets. It had been nice and made him feel full in a way he wasn’t used to. Harry had always wanted to be an Auror but maybe that dream had died when his body had, the first time. It felt like it belonged to a different part of him, a version of himself that the past had swallowed. The him that stared back at him from the mirror didn’t want that life anymore. The him that Harry was becoming acquainted with wanted to help and liked animals. 

As he turned onto the street with Hermione’s house — his home — Harry remembered how Buckbeak had bent his head and the wild thrill of riding him. He thought about how in awe he had been of the dragons, their glittering scales and the rush of their wings. He thought about the unicorns and the thestrals and the other creatures he’d seen along the way. It made him thoughtful and when he walked straight to the kitchen to find Ron making tea he said, “Hey, Ron. Do you think I could work with creatures?” 

One of the best things about the man that Ron was becoming was how rarely he seemed truly surprised by questions. He blinked at Harry only once and then made a noise which was almost swallowed by the roar of the kettle. “Like Charlie?”

Harry thought about it. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Maybe.”

Pouring water into the cups, Ron said, “I don’t see why not. You’re really good with that sort of stuff, mate. And it’d be exciting to work with dragons.”

“There’s not really many here though, is there?” Harry said, hanging his coat over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “And I don’t know if it would be dragons. I just think — like I love all those dogs. I want to spend time with them. I think I could do that.”

“Oh, right. Right.” Ron looked thoughtful and then he smiled. “You did ask us if we thought you could be a Healer before. You could be an animal one. I think you’d have a better bedside manner then.”

“Naff off,” Harry said fondly, clipping Ron with his elbow as he reached for the tea. “I’m just thinking about it.”

“I like it. You should think about it more.”

Harry nodded and then did exactly that: he thought about it more. He thought about it that night as he picked up around him in the living room and his bedroom, pushing clothes and books and detritus into piles. He didn’t get to sleep until late because he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if that was what the future held for him.

He thought about it the next morning and the next day and the day after. He went with Ron into the Ministry and peeled off to try and talk to some of the people in the Department for Regulation and Control, just in case. 

Some of them were too starstruck to be sufficiently helpful. 

Harry thought about it so much he ended up writing to Lavender Brown, the only person he knew who had seriously expressed a desire to work with animals. It struck him as he sent the letter that he hadn’t really seen her since the incident, as people called it. When she wrote back, she invited him for lunch and Harry went, nervous and hating that he was. 

Lavender’s house was in Cornwall and Harry had to stand at the bottom of the garden path, staring up at it for a moment. It was extremely picturesque, all shining white walls and a roof that looked thatched. The garden was barely growing, which made sense because it _was_ December, but if Harry squinted he could picture it in the middle of summer, filled with bursting beautiful plants, swaying in the breeze. Behind the house, a field stretched and fell off. He knew they were on a cliff and he stared past the house to the sea. It was a grey day and the sea turned and churned, waves crashing down and frothing against the shore. Harry found himself smiling and he walked up the garden path, rapping his knuckles on the door. 

There was barely a delay in response. It made him think that Lavender must have been waiting for him because the door sprang open, even though she didn’t step forwards. “Why were you hesitating?” she asked, sharp and immediate.

Harry blinked at her and said, “I — I um — I’m —”

“Don’t lie.”

He wouldn’t have but Harry couldn’t believe how strange this situation was. He frowned and said, “I was looking at the sea.”

Lavender scoffed and then studied him, bathed in shadows. Even from the relative safety of her dark hallway, he could see that she had changed. There was a scarf wrapped around half of her face. He thought it looked like a dark, gauzy material and she had twisted it around her in some kind of elegant pattern. He could tell she had a scar over one eye, bisecting her left eyebrow. His fingers twitched in sympathy and his stomach rolled (how could he have been so selfish not to check in, how could he have only cared about himself and very few people, how could she look at him now) but Lavender just kept looking at him until she finally nodded. 

She turned on her heel and said, “Come in then, Harry.” Harry obeyed, following her into the house, kicking his shoes off at the door. 

“Habit,” he murmured, when she gave him a look. She shrugged and then disappeared into one of the rooms: Harry followed her. It was a living room. He couldn’t tell if it was small or if it was just so filled with _things_ that the walls seemed to press in close. Somehow, the room contained a large corner sofa, two huge armchairs and a pouffe. There was a coffee table brimming with stuff, an apothecary sideboard and a piano shoved in one corner. Along the other walls there were bookshelves which held not only books but trailing plants and knick knacks, souvenirs of places around the world, and globes. There were scrolls and on one wall was a huge map of the world, surrounded by postcards. Above the fireplace was a huge brass mirror and the mantelpiece and around the fire itself were covered in candles and tealight holders. 

Harry stared at the riot for a moment and then smiled. “Lavender, this is amazing.”

He glanced at her and saw that she was flushing. Her face had lit up, a smile bursting forth that he could see out of one corner of her scarf. “Thanks,” she said, folding herself into an armchair. “I like it too. Why are you here?”

It was strange, Harry thought, how much the war changed people. He remembered Lavender differently — he remembered her as being high strung, fanciful, doting. He could easily picture her, still, wrapped around Ron, calling him pet names and beaming girlishly and giddily at everything. He hadn’t been in school for the last year and he wondered how much she had changed or if this person had always been there. The thought occurred to him that maybe Lavender had always been blunt and to the point and he had just brushed it aside because it didn’t fit with how he thought of her. It shamed him and Harry looked at her for a long moment. 

“I’ve been thinking about the future,” he said finally, “and then I remembered you used to talk all the time about wanting to work with animals. And I think I want to. And I remember how much you used to love it, so I thought maybe you’d be able to — help me out? That sounds a bit selfish.”

Lavender blinked in surprise. She moved and the scarf moved down. Harry barely saw the glimpse of ruined skin and then she was fixing it with quick fingers. “You want my advice?”

“Well. Yeah. If you want to give me it. I wouldn’t — I guess I should have asked if you wanted to, first.”

Lavender laughed. It was a bold sound, a far cry from a giggle, although she sounded just as delighted. “You were very vague. I wasn’t sure what was going on! I mean, I knew it wasn’t anything that serious, probably, because no one ever asks me anything serious but what if it was? My heart was going a mile a minute!”

Harry’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he muttered an apology that she waved aside. “It is serious, though,” he said. “I did mean it seriously. I do want to talk to you, if you’d talk to me.”

There was quiet for a moment, a quiet that was only broken by the ticking of the clock that sat on top of the piano. Lavender studied him and then said, lifting one shoulder in a shrug, “Okay. I can help you. I have a lot of books about it, though, so I hope you like to read.” She stood up and started to walk. Harry noticed that she favoured her right side, putting less pressure on her left leg and then tried not to notice it as she turned and looked at him. There was a wicked gleam in her eye as she said, “Who am I kidding? I remember you. You don’t like to read.”

Before Harry could say anything she had disappeared, her laughter trailing down the hallway back to him. Harry sat back in the armchair and looked around Lavender’s crowded living room, waiting for her to come back with a lot of books that he would read and felt a spark in his chest which felt like contentment. He imagined getting his questions answered, imagined finding a purpose. He pictured himself going home and telling Ron and Hermione and he thought about their faces and how happy they would be if he knew what he wanted. He thought about telling Draco as Draco added drops to one of his potions, imagined the quirk of his eyebrow and how he would roll his eyes just before he smiled. It made him feel happy.

When Lavender came back into the room, he reached for the books and leaned forward and peppered her with questions. She answered them all gladly and, when they parted, Harry promised to come back for lunch the next week. 

Hermione came home just before Christmas. Ron had known about it apparently, although he didn’t know the exact date. When she arrived, hair tied back into a severe bun, tiredness painted in purple under her eyes, Ron launched himself forwards, throwing his body at hers and gathering her close, breathing deeply. Harry watched his friends greet each other from the top of the stairs, the fervent kisses, the way that Ron kept looking at Hermione like she lit up his world just by being there. 

For a few seconds he was blindingly, achingly jealous and then he brushed it away. He was happy for them. They deserved it. 

He eased himself down to sit, not watching but not looking away. He tuned out their whispered murmurs, he unfocused his eyes and looked at the ceiling, and then when the greeting was done he said, “Welcome home, Hermione.”

They turned towards him as one, a complete unit and Harry beamed at them. Hermione beamed back, her eyes wet and her voice hoarse as she said, “Hi, Harry.” She opened her arms and Harry hesitated for a moment and then he picked himself up, flying down the stairs and wrapping his arms around her. He pressed his face into her hair and felt his chest expand with how glad he was to see her back again, whole and here, if not completely joyful. Behind him, he heard a telltale sniff and then Ron was hugging both of them. 

They were a unit, complete and full of love. 

“Are you spending Christmas with us?” Ron asked the next morning. All three of them were tucked onto the sofa, spilling into each other. Hermione’s head rested on Ron’s shoulder and he drew lazy pictures on her shoulder with the tip of his finger. Her legs were curled up beside her and Harry had his toes tucked under them, his back pressed against the arm of the sofa so he could watch his friends. He didn’t know when he had become this person but he felt full and loved and warm. 

Flexing his toes slightly so Hermione would roll her eyes at him, Harry smiled and said, “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well just in case you wanted to spend it with Malfoy or whatever.” Ron pulled a face but it disappeared quickly, chased away by the fond smile he kept giving Hermione even when she wasn’t looking at him. 

Harry shook his head. “That’s not — I spend Christmas with you. If you want me there. If your mum wants me there.”

“Of course we do, Harry,” Ron said, stretching the arm that was wrapped around Hermione out to pat awkwardly at Harry’s knee. “You’re family.”

He was family. He had a family. It didn’t matter what had happened, he had family. 

On Christmas Eve, Harry stumbled back from his dog walking shift laden with treats. His backpack, which was usually filled with water bottles and snacks and dog treats, had been charmed by Hermione to expand. Even though he had seen the charm in action before, it didn’t prevent the wonder that seized him when he saw just how much he could shove into it: panettone, gingerbread biscuits, mulled wine, Christmas cake, various cookies and biscuits and scones, tubes of Pringles and bags of fancy crisps and some alcohol too. Harry had done his best to give them back but Christmas cheer seemed effulgent. Joan Harrison, one of his favourites, had pinched his cheek, ruffled his hair and shooed him away with a loud, “Don’t be at that now. Bugger off and have a marvellous Christmas, Harry dear.”

It made his heart warm. 

He stopped off at home, divesting himself of some of the treats. The thought seized him just before he was leaving and he grabbed some and a bottle of mulled wine, sending it to Lavender with a scrawled Christmas note. He watched the owl depart for a moment and then grabbed his backpack again, apparating to Malfoy Manor. 

Harry didn’t know if Draco would expect him. They had danced around the subject of Christmas, gesturing towards it but never fully landing. Harry had watched Draco’s eyes shadow, his lips turn thin whenever it came up. He didn’t need to ask to know that it probably wouldn’t be a very happy Christmas. He didn’t need to ask to know that the last one had been miserable. He remembered his too, although he was doing his best to create a fence around it, a partition between the now and then which he carefully tended to.

Harry hesitated for only a few moments on the lane and then squared his shoulders, walking forward with purpose. The Manor looked different than the first few times he had come. He could see the work that the Malfoy’s were putting into it. The garden was tamer, although he supposed it was winter and therefore easier to tame. Windows that had been broken were mended, curtains were pulled back. Harry’s gaze caught on the warm glow in some of them and a smile flickered across his face. 

Draco had been insistent that there was no point decorating for Christmas. He rolled his eyes whenever Harry mentioned it and flapped his hand through the air as if dispelling the very suggestion. He shook his head and refused and said “I don’t much care for Christmas” and turned bright red when Harry laughed at him and tried to recreate the expressions he’d seen on younger Draco’s face that told him that he was now a filthy, rotten liar. Harry hadn’t pressed it but somehow, a few days ago, he had found himself with an armful of decorations, following Draco around the house. 

“I don’t want you to say a single smug thing,” Draco had said and Harry had shrugged and said he wouldn’t. He had instead bided his time, waited until Draco looked happy and flushed, sending candles floating around some of the trees outside and _then_ said, “It’s a great idea I had, huh?”

Draco had screamed and punched him in the arm. Harry had turned and laughed in his face and kissed him and then ran away, still laughing. 

The thought warmed him as he walked into the Manor. Blighter eyed him for a moment and then said, “Happy Christmas, Mr Potter.”

Surprised, Harry said, “Happy Christmas, Blighter.”

Blighter nodded and then said, “The family room tonight.” He disappeared immediately with a loud crack. 

Harry sniggered, amused even by this for a reason he couldn’t name, and then slid his shoes off. He kept his coat and backpack and wound his way to the family room. From down the corridor, he could hear the sound of voices every now and again and music, which he realised must be the wireless. The door was propped open and the closer he got the brighter he felt. 

Draco spoke to his mother in a low voice. As Harry approached the door, he could see that he was sitting on the ground at Narcissa’s feet. She had chosen the armchair closest to the fire and every now and again she ran a hand through her son’s hair. They were lit up by the glow of the fire and Harry stood for a moment, watching them and thinking how picturesque they looked. He could scarcely believe that he could see this now, that things had changed so much in a few months that this brought him joy but it did. He looked for the people who he had once known and he knew they were: brash or harsh, snotty and rude, bigots who clung to an ideal until it nearly destroyed them. He could see them, but over everything he could see the people he had begun to know. 

The fire caught on the pale hue of Draco’s hair, masking it and turning it almost orange. From his position, Harry could see that he was slightly red in the face and Harry remembered that they had taken the charm off to prevent people feeling the heat of the fire. He watched Draco for a moment, barely noticing the rise and fall of his conversation with Narcissa. Instead, he just watched him. 

It struck Harry then that that was probably quite creepy and he took a few steps back and then made his footsteps louder as he approached the family room for the second time. This time, when he got to the doorway, both Malfoy’s were looking at it.

Harry grinned and waved. “Merry Christmas,” he said.

Draco looked a little stunned. His mouth was open and lax. It made him look gormless and it made Harry’s heart surge. Narcissa looked less surprised, but one eyebrow was still raised high. Harry shuffled, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. 

“Happy Christmas, Harry,” Narcissa said, coming back to herself and gesturing him forward.

Harry dropped his backpack onto the floor and smiled at her, transferring his gaze finally to Draco. Draco was still looking at him in shock. 

Narcissa tugged on a lock of hair. 

“Harry,” he said and then, turning red, “Happy Christmas.” Draco smiled, looking shy, and then something settled onto his face. He peered at Harry accusingly. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“I didn’t say I was.” Harry shrugged. “I thought I’d come say it in person.”

“You told us the other day,” Draco said, like a sensible person. 

“I thought I’d say it again. ‘Tis the season,” Harry replied, like a sensible person. 

“It’s very kind of you, Harry,” Narcissa said, like a mediator, giving her son a sharp look. Draco undoubtedly could not see it from where he was sitting but it was evidently not an unknown tone of voice. He looked slightly abashed and then nodded, a silent agreement with his mother. 

Harry did not particularly like to be called kind. He didn’t know why, just that it left him feeling almost like his insides had become momentarily mush and that made him feel awkward and embarrassed. Feeling his own face heat, he shrugged again and coughed in embarrassment. It made him lean to grab the backpack as he unzipped it. “I have things for you.”

“You brought presents?” Draco sounded alarmed. 

“I mean, I guess but not really,” Harry said, lying like the huge liar he was. “This is — the things I have here were given to me for the dog walking and stuff that I’ve been doing for people. It’s too much for all of us to have.”

He didn’t wait for either of the Malfoy’s to acknowledge what he was doing or chime in. He didn’t really allow them a chance to speak either. He hadn’t considered that it might be weird, turning up to the grandest house he had ever been in and presenting the poshest people he had ever known with a handful of neighbourhood presents. The thought had simply not entered his head until he was placing stuff on the coffee table, glancing at the muggle labels. At least, he thought, some of it was from Marks & Spencer. Not that the Malfoy’s would even know the difference. Not that Harry really cared, except it was so utterly absurd that he almost laughed. 

“I thought it’d be nice. They really did get me loads, which is great, but even when I go to the Weasley’s, they just — you probably don’t know this but Mrs Weasley always has the biggest spread and there’s so much food. If I brought everything, I’d probably end up charged with attempted murder.” Harry stopped. “I mean, food coma murder. That’s a new law. They’ve just introduced it. They’re calling it the Christmas law.”

Narcissa held up a hand; Harry was extremely relieved to have an outside impetus to be quiet. She was smiling and Draco’s amusement was shining from his face too, his grin wide and the light in his eyes undeniable. Harry did not stare. 

“It’s very nice, Harry,” she said, glancing at biscuit tin Harry had sat down, the wine, the panettone. An expression he didn’t quite understand played across her face and then she ran a hand over the top of Draco’s head before standing. “I have a letter that I need to send. I’ll be back later. Rather a bit later, I must admit; it will be a long letter..”

She left and Harry looked at Draco, who hadn’t said anything for a while. He was staring at the things on the table. Harry could feel that Draco only seemed to look at him when he looked away, feeling the weight of his wondrous stare like a physical presence. 

Finally, he cleared his throat. “Are you going to say something or are you really into staring now?”

Draco flushed. The firelight on his hair still made it look orange and Harry wanted to touch it so badly that his fingers twitched. “Why did you bring this here?”

Harry shrugged and said, “I meant what I said. I don’t need it all.”

“But,” Draco started then stopped. He was still on the ground and he tilted his head back to stare at Harry. He looked more than a little confused and a lot lost. They looked at each other for a long moment and then Draco reached his hand out towards Harry. Harry moved forward to grab it and let himself be tugged down onto the ground. 

Draco still didn’t speak. He kept studying Harry, eyes sweeping across his face. It made Harry feel self-conscious but he tried not to move or fidget or do anything but submit to Draco’s stare. He wasn’t sure what was happening, except that Draco looked intent and intense and they stayed like that for what felt like minutes. Eventually, Draco reached out and traced his fingertips along Harry’s cheekbone, down his nose, around his mouth. 

“What are you doing?” Harry asked. 

“I’m committing this to memory,” Draco said. “I’m committing you to memory. I don’t think this is real.”

Harry laughed softly. “I’m real, Draco. Don’t be so ridiculous.”

That made Draco smile. “That’s better. I don’t like it when you’re too nice to me.”

“Liar,” Harry said and realised he was nearly whispering. “You always want people to be nice to you. You want everyone to think you’re as great as you think you are.”

Draco’s eyes were bright. “That shows how little you know me, Potter,” he said, his voice a murmur. “I don’t want that at all.”

“What do you want?”

“Just you.” Draco’s wandering, tracing fingertips swept down Harry’s jaw, traced the shell of his ear. Harry stared at Draco, unsure of what to say. He wanted Draco too, of course he did, but the tone of Draco’s voice was different than usual — he sounded reverent and pained, hopeful and helpless at the same time. He sounded like he couldn’t believe he was saying it and like he meant it. 

Harry moved forward and pressed his lips against Draco’s softly. The kiss felt more like an exhale, a breath. His lips ghosted across Draco’s, feather light, and then he moved to place one at the corner of his smile. He kissed the tip of Draco’s nose and his forehead. He kissed his eyelids, tilting Draco’s head towards him. Draco settled his hands onto Harry’s shoulders and his fingers clawed at them. He bent his head in benediction towards Harry as Harry pressed worshipful kisses across his face. Draco held on tight and Harry felt like telling him he didn’t need to. He was here. 

“That’s a terrible gift to ask for,” Harry said, pressing a kiss under Draco’s ear. He groaned and Harry nipped lightly at his earlobe. “I brought panettone for you instead. I think that’s posher.”

“You’re so uncultured,” Draco said, digging his fingernails in more. “I wish I could tell you that it makes me sick.”

“It doesn’t?” Harry kissed the skin under the other ear.

“No.” Draco hesitated and then pulled back. His grip on Harry was still tight, his face disconcertingly open. Harry didn’t know what that meant. “Nothing about you makes me sick.”

Harry stared at him and then smiled. He reached to cup Draco’s face and said, “I’ve never been happier to hear it.”

He kissed him again, this time with more force behind it, and pressed Draco down until he was lying on the floor in front of the fire. Harry trailed kisses down his neck, nipping at it, his hands searching for skin and finding it but somehow it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t going to be enough. Harry tilted his head and pressed a kiss to Draco’s collarbone (somehow his shirt was off). “I want you to be naked,” he said. 

“That can be arranged,” Draco said, shoving at Harry. “My mother’s not coming back soon.”

“Don’t mention your mother.”

Draco laughed and looked at Harry with dancing eyes. His hair was still gleaming in the firelight. As he took off his clothes, his skin was lit up by it. Harry thought he was beautiful, so beautiful, the most beautiful person he had ever seen. The light of the fire created patterns in light and shadow across Draco’s skin and Harry was so hungry to chase all of them. 

He bent his head and placed his mouth on Draco’s pale skin and showed him how hungry his desire was.

Christmas at the Weasley’s had been everything that Harry had known it would be: so loud that it sometimes felt you had to shout to be heard and so loving that it poured out of everyone, made them happier and more grounded. Harry found himself sitting in a corner a few times just trying to soak it up, to revel in the feeling. He had died, but he was here. He was here and he was loved and he loved. 

He was never allowed to stay in the corner for very long. There was always someone tugging him forward, including him in conversation, asking his opinions, or trying to force food down him. Molly Weasley plied everybody with food and Bill and Fleur had apparently liberated a whole vineyard considering the amount of wine they brought with them. There were Irish coffees and brandies and port. There were presents exchanged and hushed remembrances of Fred and, shortly after, not so hushed remembrances. Hermione and Ron were caught kissing under mistletoe and Molly cried, while Arthur patted her back. Charlie kept talking about his partner in increasingly bizarre and outlandish stories that made Harry laugh so hard he hurt, before he eventually admitted that he meant his favourite dragon. It was wonderful. 

Ginny looked at Harry and smiled and Harry looked at her and grinned and they were normal and happy and healthy. They talked and tried to push away awkwardness. Harry still tried to hang back and it was fairly late on before Ginny cornered him as he made his way back from the bathroom. 

“Can we talk?” she asked, tilting her head up to look at Harry. Harry blinked down and then nodded, following Ginny as she walked out the back door. 

It was chilly but not particularly cold. Harry felt the wind hit his cheeks and knew he would be red-cheeked, but he didn’t feel the need for any sort of warming charm. There was something about the winter air that made him feel alive. Ginny dropped down to sit on the steps leading down from the back door and Harry followed her a minute afterwards. 

“You look better,” she said finally. She studied Harry with interest and a keen eye that had not been dulled by any of the drinks she’d taken that night. “Healthier. Happier.”

Harry looked back at her and then smiled. “I think I am. Not that I don’t — I mean, not that I don’t miss you.”

Ginny snorted. “Harry, that’s not what I was getting at.”

He shrugged, pulling the sleeves of his jumper down until they covered his hands. “I just thought I should say it.”

“Well I appreciate it,” Ginny said, her eyes twinkling, her smile illuminating her face. “I’m happier, too. It’s not because you’re not around me, either. It’s just because I’m doing what I want and I’m trying to be who I want to be.”

Harry tilted his head to the side. He turned his gaze away from Ginny and looked out at the Weasley's garden. The sun had long since set and it was dark now but he knew this garden, knew where everything was, knew what every shape was even if it was far off and barely discernible in the night. He squinted at his favourite tree in the distance and thought about it. “I think I’m getting there,” he said, finally. “I’m still not sure who that is all the time, but I’m getting closer to who I want to be.”

He couldn’t see Ginny’s smile but he could hear it in her voice as she tipped towards him, resting her head against his shoulder. “That’s all I want for you, Harry.”

Harry didn’t know how he had got so lucky to have all these people in his life who loved him, who wanted him to be happy, who knew him or were coming to but he was so full of hope and love and joy that he could choke. He reached out and wrapped an arm around Ginny and they sat there, talking in low voices for half an hour before George came out to drag them inside. 

Harry was so, so happy to be alive.

The owl came a few days later, nipping into Harry’s room and out again. Harry grinned and stared down at the familiar handwriting, shoving a gingerbread cookie into his mouth as he opened it.

> _Harry,_
> 
> _Come stay for New Year’s. Tell me no at great personal risk._
> 
> _Draco_
> 
> Harry couldn’t say no with a threat like that. He replied still grinning, his feet firmly in the present, his heart thrumming with glee.


	5. pt v (spring).

Harry bounded down the stairs, humming to himself as he nearly skipped into the kitchen. It was early but the whole house was awake: Ron because he had to be for Auror training and Hermione because she ‘liked the routine’ and ‘preferred to get her work started in the morning.’ Harry said his good mornings as he walked past the kitchen table where Ron was shoving bacon into his mouth and Hermione already had her books spread around her. There was an open notepad at her elbow and a pen but she was sipping on her tea and talking with Ron. 

For a moment, Harry involved himself in the inertia of the routine. Kettle on, cereal today, bowl out, milk in. He made his tea, trying to keep humming, snippets of a song that had been on the radio as he had showered. With breakfast ready, he grabbed it and set himself down at the table. 

“You’re chipper this morning,” Hermione said. 

“Don’t tell us if you got laid,” Ron said, with a gleam in his eye. 

Harry rolled his eyes and decided he wasn’t going to pay attention to Ron, who clearly didn’t deserve it because he was trying to interrupt Harry’s precious time with his Shreddies. Spooning some into his mouth, he shrugged and said, “I’ve stuff to do today.”

“What stuff?”

“I’m in for an interview at the animal Healer’s I was telling you about.” Harry crunched his way through more of the cereal. “See how it goes and if I like it I might apply to start learning, you know. In the autumn.” 

Hermione looked at him with bright eyes, pride shining out of her face so obviously that Harry had to duck his head and consider his tea. He’d made it a bit too milky, he realised, but it was an adequate enough distractor — or so he thought anyway. When he looked back up, Hermione still had that look on her face and Ron had a variation of it too. It was slightly more restrained on Ron’s face but he leaned forward, thumping Harry hard on the shoulder. 

“I’m dead proud of you, mate,” he said gruffly.

Harry blinked at both of them. “Have you lost it?”

“No!” Hermione said, somehow sharp despite the fact that her eyes looked a little wet now. “It’s just — we were so worried about you because _you_ seemed so lost and now look at you! You’ve got plans! You know what you might want to do!” Hermione started to cry and then she flung herself out of her chair, wrapping her arms around Harry’s neck and pulling him into a hug that was made slightly awkward by the fact he was still sitting and still holding his bowl of cereal. 

Harry blinked in confusion and looked at Ron who just polished off the last of his bacon and said, “She’s right, Harry.”

Harry squeezed Hermione’s hand and tried to reassure her that everything was going to be okay and he was proud of himself too and proud of her and that it was really much too early to be crying. It took a few minutes: Hermione’s emotions seemed closer to the surface now than they had before. Harry supposed that was what happened when your parents didn’t remember you properly, when months of spellwork had brought back only brief memories that seemed to scare them. Hermione had taken a few weeks to fill Ron and Harry in on everything that had happened when she was in Australia but Harry already knew he would never forget the tone of voice that she has used, the fear and the self-loathing bubbling under her words. He had tried to wrest it away and he knew Ron had, had heard some murmured conversations that he had pointedly tried not to listen to. It had left Hermione raw and a little overexposed; she cried easily now. 

Reassuring Hermione took some time, but Harry did it and then left them, slipping upstairs to get dressed and stare at himself in the mirror. His concentration on his own image was absolute: Harry looked at who he was now and tried to remember who he had been. 

His hair hadn’t changed much, though the length had — it was still black and thick and irrepressible, always deciding what it wanted to do and just going for it. There was no real hope in taming it but Hermione had gently told him a few things he probably needed to do with his hair because “you’re just going to ruin it, if you carry on like that.” His hair curled more now and it was longer than he’d worn it when he was younger — and it was in significantly better shape than it had been last year. His eyes were still his mother’s, green and bright. Harry thought they looked sadder than they used to but they no longer looked as haunted. He no longer looked at his face and saw the nights of interrupted sleep or the days spent walking around like he was a shadow of himself. His skin wasn’t as pale, the bags under his eyes weren’t as noticeable. He could look at his reflection and see someone who could survive this. 

If he could survive Voldemort, he could survive an interview. He could impress people. He had probably done it before, sometimes even intentionally. Harry looked for signs of nervousness and then tried not to. It would make him worse. 

Pulling himself together, he ran a comb through his hair and then pulled on an outfit that seemed very appropriate before leaving the house. It was a late February morning and the month was dying off. It brought with it a shift in the air, a brightness to the sun. As Harry walked past gardens he could see them trying to repair themselves after the winter. The breeze brushed against the trees, ruffling the leaves. It felt like they were whispering at him. 

He could walk to the animal Healer, so he did. Harry did that now: he walked everywhere if he could. He had always hated apparating, hated the way his stomach twisted and turned, how his body failed to feel like his own for moments after he reappeared. Sometimes it brought him back with startling clarity to the Forbidden Forest and Harry wouldn’t, couldn’t go back there. He wanted to be in the world, so he walked in it and tried to take it all in. 

Even though he didn’t walk too fast, he still arrived for his interview too early. He loitered outside and considered walking to one of the muggle coffee shops and buying a coffee. Then he thought about how rude it would seem when he appeared clutching one and decided against it. He walked up and down the street seven times and then took a deep breath and went in. 

“Hi,” he said, greeting the receptionist with a smile. “My name’s Harry Potter. I’m here for an interview?”

She blinked at him and nodded, stumbling over her words. “Of course! I know who you are! Um, can you take a seat? I can — do you want water? Coffee? Tea?”

Harry did not want anything but he said yes to water, to have something to hold as he sat there and waited and tried not to worry. When the animal Healer, a man called Patrick Jones, came out to get him Harry’s heart stuttered.

He followed Patrick into his office. He talked and he heard himself talk, asking questions. Patrick was _nice_ , Harry thought, and calm. He was tall, easily six foot four, and slender, with rugby player shoulders. He wore a shirt which was rolled up and there were scars across his hands and his arms. When Harry looked at them, Patrick smiled and explained that he used to work with very dangerous creatures and that those creatures were not the sort that Harry would be dealing with. 

Patrick Jones spoke with a soft Welsh accent and everything he said sounded well thought out and almost serene. He told Harry about his practice, how he had opened it on his thirty-fifth birthday after spending fifteen years working with other people. He told him about the clients and the animals, about how some were people’s pets, that he liaised with local farmers and that there were those animal Healer’s who would deal with more dangerous creatures. Patrick stressed that Harry would not be expected to do that. He was kind and asked questions and nodded at Harry’s answers. 

When it seemed like the interview was coming to a close he said, “When do you want to start?”

Harry blinked in surprise. “I can start?”

Patrick grinned. “Yes, of course. I’d be happy to have you with us.”

Harry beams. “I can start tomorrow.”

“Next week, maybe?” Patrick’s eyes are dancing and Harry smiles back and nods. He could do next week. He could do whenever. 

Ever since Narcissa’s house arrest had lapsed, Draco had retreated into himself. Harry knew that Draco thought he was being subtle but he really, really wasn’t. “I’m happy for you,” Draco told his mother, smiling at her, squeezing her hand, encouraging her to go out. He would smile at her until she wasn’t looking at him and then his expression would go weirdly blank, a wall of ice sliding into place. Harry saw it, saw the jealousy that flared up and how hard Draco tried not to pay attention to it. He saw how Draco pulled away from himself and into his work, throwing himself into potions experiments that Harry did not really understand. 

He sat and listened whenever Draco talked and tried to help. Draco had regular deliveries of ingredients and, now that Narcissa was allowed out, she brought him back more. Harry had started to bring the ones that made Draco anxious and twitchy, ingredients that some of the apothecaries flinched at selling to someone with the name ‘Malfoy.’

Two days after he got the job at the animal clinic, he stopped by an apothecary with a list and brought some of the ingredients back to Malfoy Manor with him.

Harry didn’t particularly like buying them, mostly because he didn’t know what they did, but when he asked Draco about it he started spinning out. He flew around the kitchen like a frightened bird, his limbs flapping everywhere like wings. His eyes were huge and his voice high as he recited all the potions to Harry that he needed to make, needed to get evaluated, needed to be _perfect_. Harry stood there, practically frozen, trying hard to be a wall of calm in the middle of Draco’s incessant motion. 

“I’m not trying to _kill anyone_ , Harry, I’d rather _die_ than try that again but I have to make them or it’s for nothing, isn’t it? This is for nothing. Me nearly losing my mind studying all these stupid books is for nothing.” Draco’s eyes were a wild, tumultuous storm, thundercloud grey. He lifted his hands and dragged them through his hair, making it stick out ridiculously. His face was pale and strained and pleading as he stared at Harry. 

“You’re not losing your mind,” Harry said softly. “You’re just stressed.”

Laughter escaped Draco’s mouth and it sounded more like a gurgle. He pulled his hair. “I’m losing my mind!”

Harry sighed and then shrugged, carelessly. “Then you’re losing your mind. It’s temporary. You’ll get it back.”

Draco screwed his face up and looked furious. “Oh yeah, _you_ can say that, can’t you? Of course you can say that! You don’t know! You don’t know!” He had turned into a flurry of motion again, flinging his body around the kitchen. There were so many cauldrons set up now that it probably put any Hogwarts potions class to shame. They bubbled away, a merry chorus underscoring just how desperate and frantic Draco looked. He wove through the cauldrons, staring at all of them with a pained look on his face. Harry stepped forward, dropping the shopping bag onto the table. 

He followed Draco on soft feet, waited until he was at the corner cauldron and then crowded him into the corner. Draco looked at him in surprise, their eyes meeting properly for the first time since Harry had stepped into the kitchen. Beneath the thunderstorm in them, Harry could see real fear. 

It tugged desperately in his chest but Harry had other things to say. His hand went to Draco’s chest, palm flat against it and he shoved him lightly. He was careful to do it away from the cauldrons. Harry might not know that much about potions but he wasn’t _stupid_.

“Draco,” he said firmly, “don’t talk to me like that. I do know. You think you’re the only one here whose mind fucks off sometimes?”

Draco swallowed and then Harry watched a sneer appear. It looked tremulous, as if Draco was really digging deep to pull it up, but it appeared nonetheless. “Is this when you admit to me that you actually did lose it that time in fifth year?”

“Don’t be a dick,” Harry snapped. He kept his palm on Draco’s chest and he could feel his heartbeat thrumming underneath it. “I’m trying to speak to you about something important, so let’s not ruin it by retreating to childhood, okay?”

Draco’s war with his worst instincts was taking place in front of Harry’s face. He could feel Draco’s heartbeat fluttering and felt the tremble in his body that meant Draco was telling himself not to move. His nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed and despite it all he said, curtly, “Fine. Move your hand, Harry.”

“I don’t want you to go anywhere.”

“I won’t. Move your hand.” 

Harry nodded and dropped his hand, stepping back. Draco took a deep breath and his chest rose and fell with it. He stared at Harry looking furious, but Harry decided not to take it too personally. 

“You said you had something important to speak to me about,” Draco reminded him, after silence that stretched for long moments. 

“I said it. You don’t know — you don’t know what every night was like for me right after everything. And you don’t know what it’s always like now. I’m better, Draco, but I’m not stupid enough to think it can’t come back. Hermione used to tell us that it was important to feel it and to know that it was temporary.” Harry could still picture her and her soft, hushed voice as she said it to him and to herself too, how they had pressed against each other on sofas and in the corners of rooms and how they had slept curled around each other sometimes because it helped. He remembered the comfort of it, when he had felt like he was falling apart. “You’ve not absolutely lost it yet, Malfoy, and I’m really proud of you. I just asked you a question about your potions. I don’t think you want to kill people.”

Draco made a noise like a wounded animal and lifted his hands, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. His chin dropped to his chest and he held himself so stiffly. Harry moved forward and wrapped his fingers around Draco’s wrist, tugging his hands away. 

“You’re intolerable,” Draco said, miserably. “I hate you so much. You annoy me constantly.”

“Shut up, you drama queen.” Harry brushed Draco’s hair away from his eyes. “You look disgusting. I think you need to get some sleep.”

Draco flushed. “I’m sleeping.”

“Liar.” Harry turned to look at the bubbling cauldrons and said, “How many of these are time sensitive?”

“They all are.”

“You can go get some sleep and I can take care of them.”

The loud and nearly hysterical laughter that escaped Draco was, frankly, uncalled for. Harry glared at him. “Fuck off.”

“No, _you_ fuck off, Potter. As if I’d trust you to do this.” He shoved at Harry lightly but he was still laughing, head thrown back, the line of his throat exposed. Some of the colour reappeared in Draco’s cheeks. “You’re literally useless. I’ve never met anyone more useless than you.”

Harry’s face was red and he scowled at Draco, trying to press the urge to laugh with him away. “Okay so I’m not great but —”

“Not great!” Draco interrupted him, howling. “Not great, he says!” This appeared to be directed at one of the cauldrons, the largest of them, which emitted a foul smell and smoke that curled invitingly despite that. “Not great! He’d probably kill himself trying to make you!”

“Please stop talking to the potions,” Harry said fondly, curling his fingers around Draco’s arms and tugging him lightly away. Draco had started to practically croon to the cauldron, telling it stories of Harry’s potions mishaps. “Maybe I’ll take back what I said about you not being crazy.”

“No take backsies,” Draco said seriously. “You think I’m perfectly sane.”

Harry raised an eyebrow at Draco. “I didn’t say that.”

“I heard it.”

“You have selective hearing.”

“Yes, well, I’m a very selective person.” Draco said it easily, clearly delighted with himself that he got to say it. Harry shook his head and tugged on Draco’s arm a bit more, pulling him towards the kitchen door. As they passed every cauldron, Draco said goodbye to them. It was only once they were out of the kitchen and the door had closed behind them that the glittering edge of Draco’s mania appeared to wear off. He sagged a little, leaning into Harry’s side and pressed his face into Harry’s hair. He mumbled into it when he spoke. “I can’t really go to sleep.”

“Of course you can.” Harry looped an arm around Draco’s waist as they walked, a shuffling walk. “People the world over constantly sleep.”

“I’ve been bad at it lately. I keep having dreams I don’t like.”

Harry had guessed as much but he decided against telling Draco that. Instead, he hummed encouragingly and kept them walking through the manor, towards Draco’s bedroom. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Blighter at one point and raised a hand in a half-wave. Blighter nodded in acknowledgement, keeping a close eye on their movements. Draco’s feet were trailing. 

“I’ll stay with you,” Harry told Draco. “I’ll stay with you if it’ll help you sleep. I’ll read to you. Do you remember when you did that for me?”

Draco made a noise like a huff of air or laughter. “You freaked out and ran away afterwards.”

“Are you going to run away?”

“I’m always running away from you,” Draco said, which was such a huge lie from someone who was currently trying to mould their bodies together. Harry laughed and opened the door to Draco’s bedroom, hurrying through the front chamber to get to the back. Draco made a gleeful noise when he saw the bed and flung himself onto it, curling into a comma. 

Standing back, Harry looked at him for a long moment and then moved forward. He undid Draco’s trousers and didn’t have to endure any innuendo. He maneuvered Draco under the covers and pulled the curtains and watched him. Harry smoothed Draco’s hair and answered the ridiculous questions he kept asking, which ran the gamut from Harry’s favourite colour to whether Harry was really going to go back and try to help with his potions. 

“No, Draco. Tell me how long before your potions need to be looked at again.”

Draco opened one eye blearily and smiled at Harry. “I lied. Like twelve hours.”

Twelve hours would put them at three o’clock in the morning. It struck Harry how stupid potion making was, how thoroughly Draco had probably ruined his sleeping schedule. He didn’t know how much of it was on purpose and how much had been an accident but considering that Draco clearly wasn’t at his best Harry did the decent thing and decided not to ask. Instead, he ran a hand through Draco’s hair again. “Bastard,” he said fondly. “Go to sleep.”

Draco reached out, eyes still closed, hand encircling Harry’s wrist. “You said you’d read to me.” He was almost pouting. It made Harry’s heart clench. 

“You got me there,” Harry said softly. After a moment of hesitation, he grabbed a book off Draco’s bedside chest of drawers and sat on the bed. Draco moved into his side, seeking warmth, folding his limbs around Harry. Harry made room for him and started to read. 

Draco fell asleep before he finished the second page. 

Harry watched him for a long time. It wasn’t often that he got to look at Draco like this — Narcissa knew about their relationship, but Harry preferred not to stay the night much. It felt strange to him, for reasons he struggled to explain. Although they slept together there really wasn’t much sleeping _afterwards_. Harry rarely got to see Draco’s face, slack with sleep, body completely without any tension. He used the pads of his fingertips to trace Draco’s face and found himself grinning as he smoothed a thumb over his eyebrows. 

He had always paid a ridiculous amount of attention to Draco Malfoy, Harry knew, but this was something different. 

When he slid out of the bed, Harry hesitated, staring around the room. He could hear the noise of Draco sleeping, the rise and fall of his chest in the corner of his eye. The room was messier than Harry had ever seen and he spent a few minutes searching for some paper and a quill. 

__

> _Draco,_
> 
> _I’m writing this in case I’m not here when you wake up. I’m having dinner tonight with Lavender so there’s a pretty good chance that I won’t be. You look like you need a lot of sleep and I hope that you get it. You’re going to push yourself too hard. I know this is important to you, but you’re important too. You can’t just not sleep and let everything build up inside you like you have. It’ll be an unpleasant explosion and I like all your bits exactly where they are. Don’t do it again. If you want to you can always owl me and I’ll come round to you again. I’ve a great reading voice._
> 
> _I’ve set an alarm for half two, just in case. You said 12 hours for the potions so that’d give you enough time to wake up from the sleep fog and have a functioning brain again._
> 
> _I’ll come round tomorrow._
> 
> _Harry_

It took Harry a while to find where to put the note that Draco would see it almost immediately. Eventually, he tucked it into the corner of the mirror. He hung around for an hour or so, reading one of the books on magical creatures in Draco’s room and then let himself out.

Dinner with Lavender had become something of a routine now. They ate together every other week — lunch or dinner or sometimes breakfast, depending on where the moon was. Harry was ashamed to admit that he had barely talked to Lavender, had rarely listened to her before he had appeared on her doorstep asking questions he thought she could answer. He had apologised once and Lavender had said “Yes that was really silly of you” and that had been the end of it. 

He liked her manner, brusque and straightforward and incredibly unflinching. She told him more than once that the werewolf bite had probably helped in that regard. She told him things that made him miss Remus with a deep ache that sometimes felt bittersweet. Harry would wish desperately that Remus was still there, that he could ask him things, that he could convince Lavender to write to him and get his guidance. 

Dinner was good, steaks cooked rare and garlic drenched potatoes. Lavender served them and said, “If I have to be a werewolf, I’m going to at least scare the vampires away.” Harry laughed so hard he nearly choked and when he went home, he was half-drunk and completely full. It was barely past nine and Ron and Hermione were nowhere to be seen. Harry made sure to walk quickly past their bedroom door just in case. 

There was an owl at his window. Harry grinned and unfastened the note, unrolling it as he lay down on his bed.

> _Harry,_
> 
> _I rather like all my bits where they are too. I know you do too. [ a hastily sketched winking Draco ]_
> 
> _I am horrified to tell you that I think I like you rather quite a lot. Rather more than a lot. Thank you for putting me to bed. Don’t leave next time._
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _Draco_

Harry reread the words several times. His heart jumped and he realised he had clutched the paper so tight that it crumpled at the edges. Sitting up, he smoothed it out, placing a mug on top of it to try and keep it flat.

He fell asleep lying on his side, staring at the note. 

Harry went back to Malfoy Manor the next day, trying to ignore the way his heart kept kicking, the way his throat felt like it was closing over. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. He wished that the sharp edges of whatever emotion was overwhelming him would fizzle off and die out. 

His walk up the drive was slower and he had his hands deep in his pockets. A part of him knew it wasn’t quite spring yet — “February isn’t spring,” Hermione had said and ignored all of his arguments that the Natural Order of Things was incorrect and Harry was right with his deep-seated belief (supported by Ron) that spring started once January ended. A part of him knew that but the sun seemed brighter, the days were lengthening, and it was nearly March anyway. When he looked out over the grounds he could see the signs of life restarting and, round one corner, he saw Narcissa staring thoughtfully at what had been a rose garden. 

Harry headed towards her. “Good morning,” he said and she smiled and greeted him back. “What’s up?”

Narcissa frowned but appeared to decide not to take the opportunity to let him know how much she hated that greeting. Instead she looked at the ground in front of her, the still-green rose bushes and the leaves which curled up the side of a shed. “I’m trying to think of whether I want to incorporate some lilies into my rose garden,” she told him.

Harry’s heart stuttered. He looked at the greenery and said, “I really like lilies.”

Narcissa cut a glance back at him and then nodded. “Yes, that makes sense.” She cleared her throat. “They’re beautiful flowers. They don’t take up too much room, either; roses are extremely prone to spreading and they loathe too much competition.” She continued to talk for a while as Harry stood there, pointing out different plants that hadn’t flowered yet, discussing how she also intended to incorporate lavender and what that helped repel. Harry tilted his head and listened and asked questions, nodding all the while. He had never hated herbology but it had never been where he shone, though he wasn’t sure if gardening was the same thing. All he knew was that this was clearly a passion of Narcissa’s — her face changed when she spoke, grew brighter, less troubled. She didn’t look like the woman who had asked him to visit her before her son’s trial. That person seemed like a distant memory. 

“Of course, I’ll need to get started right away. I have rather put it off, at this point, and I would like some of the flowers to have bloomed before summer. Thankfully, we have some bulbs in the greenhouses that I can just replant but it will not be nearly enough.” Narcissa ran a hand over her hair, smoothing it down. 

“If you want some help, I can help.” 

Narcissa looked at him and smiled. “That’s very kind, but I think I would prefer to do it myself. I stopped doing this for so long.” Her expression changed, going distant. “There seemed no point in it last year.”

Harry moved, shuffling his feet awkwardly against the ground and then nodded. With complete honesty, he said, “I don’t think I thought once about gardening while Voldemort was around last year.”

The look that Narcissa gave him was both sly with amusement and long-suffering. “I can’t say that that surprises me,” she said, drily. She took a step forward, crouching down by some roses and started to pull out weeds. As she did, she said, “I would like to talk about Draco. Momentarily. There’s no need to worry.”

“I’m not worried,” Harry said automatically, despite the fact that anxiety had bloomed in his chest.

“Of course not.” Narcissa kept pulling up weeds. “Do you think that he’s been rather not himself, as of late?”

Harry thought about lying. He didn’t think that Narcissa needed to know what had happened yesterday or the strange note that he had received. He didn’t think that Narcissa needed to know every single thing that Draco had said to him that ever worried him. He could keep Draco’s secrets but there was a tightness to Narcissa’s face and her concern about her son was evident. Harry knew just how much she loved him. 

“I think it’s been hard for him,” he said carefully, hunkering down. He started to pull up weeds beside Narcissa. “Obviously it’s been hard for him but now that you can go out, too, I think it’s harder. I think he feels stuck.”

Bitterness laced her words as Narcissa said, “I can leave as long as I’m back for seven.”

“It’s more than he can.” Harry deposited the weeds he had pulled into a pile. 

“I knew it was bothering him.”

“He doesn’t want to upset you.”

“He should not make that choice for me.” Narcissa’s jaw was set. “I’m his mother and it’s up to me to protect him.”

Harry laughed. He didn’t mean to but he did and then he had to slam his hand over his mouth, eyes wide. An apology rushed out of him and then he said, “I just think — with everything that’s happened, I don’t know if he needs protection as much as care, you know?”

Narcissa frowned and then said, “We’ll see.” She didn’t really sound like she believed him. In fact, her shoulders looked straight and determined and she was clearly thinking deeply about something. Harry had never had a mother, so he wasn’t sure what she was thinking but he had the distinct feeling that there was no way on earth that Narcissa was ever going to think she didn’t need to protect Draco. That wasn’t something she was prepared to accept. 

It delighted him now, making his heart both sing and clench. He remembered how jealously he had watched the Malfoy’s clinging to each other after the battle: they had been on the wrong side, they had been in the _wrong_ but they had helped him and they had each other. Harry had thought very little of them but the sight had played on him for a long time afterwards. It was the love they had for each other. It had been bewildering to think about at first. Now, he was glad they had at least. 

“He’ll be okay,” Harry said, pulling more weeds. Narcissa nodded and they worked together quietly for a bit before Harry realised that he hadn’t yet seen Draco. A niggling voice in his head asked him if he was putting it off. Glancing over his shoulder, he looked back at the house. When he turned back to the garden, Narcissa pretended that she hadn’t been looking at him. 

“He was in the music room when I came out here,” Narcissa said. Mumbling his thanks, Harry stood up, dusted off his trousers and departed. He didn’t need Blighter to show him where he was going this time. His feet were more confident as he walked through the corridors. As he approached the music room, Harry could hear playing. 

Hesitating for a moment outside the door, Harry stood with his hand on the doorknob and tried to think about what he was going to say. He didn’t know. Had he been supposed to write back? 

It was too late now. He was here now. Gathering his courage, Harry pushed open the door. 

There wasn’t a pause in the music. It kept going, although Harry saw Draco look up from under his eyelashes, watched him realise who he had invaded his space. Draco didn’t acknowledge him. He just kept playing, a song that Harry didn’t know himself but one which he had heard Draco hum many times. Harry walked across the room and lowered himself onto the piano bench beside Draco. 

Draco shifted just slightly but never missed a beat. Harry watched his fingers move up and down the keys of the piano, fascinated as always and slowly, ever so slowly, rested his head against Draco’s shoulder. He heard his intake of breath, quick and sharp, but Draco kept playing. 

It was a long piece of music. It seemed to go on and on, minute after minute ticking by. Harry didn’t mind. He sat with his head on Draco’s shoulder, watching him play, listening to him breathe. If he could have this, he thought that would be enough. If this was all he ever got for the rest of his life, maybe it would be enough. 

When the music ended, Harry almost wasn’t ready. It startled him and he blinked several times. There was suddenly tension in Draco’s body that he couldn’t hide: there wasn’t a hope of it when Harry was leaning so close to him and breathing the same air. Harry lifted his hand and placed his palm, spread, on the small of Draco’s back. 

“How long did you sleep?” he asked. 

Draco shrugged. Harry’s head moved with it. “A long time. Nearly too long. I woke up and I,” for a moment he trailed off, clearly not wanting to mention the note, voice faltering before he said, “I wasn’t awake for very long. The alarm you set woke me up so thanks.”

“No problem.” Harry pressed the pads of his fingers more firmly against Draco’s back. “You need to take care of yourself, you idiot.”

“Don’t call me an idiot. Of the two of us, you’re clearly the idiot.”

“Nah,” Harry said, feeling warm. “I’ve not done a single thing stupid lately. You don’t get to duck out of this one. I’m telling you off.”

Draco let out a huge sigh. His spine curled as he bent forward and then he lifted a hand to tug at Harry’s curls. Harry knew he was holding them straight, watching them spring back into shape. He let him. “It’s a terrible telling off. I don’t feel cowed at all.”

Harry picked his head up from Draco’s shoulder and turned to look in his face, frowning, knowing he looked open and far too earnest. His eyes were shining. “I’m not trying to cow you, Draco,” he said seriously. “I’m not trying to guilt you either, not really. I’m just telling you that making yourself feel physically bad isn’t going to actually help you feel any better.”

Draco blinked at him in surprise. “Obviously.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “It is obvious.” He didn’t say anything else for a long moment, instead staring straight into Draco’s face, clocking every change in his expression. He did look better, much more rested. The bags under his eyes were still there but Harry suspected it would take more than one night’s sleep to eradicate them. His hair was neat and he had clearly taken great care in choosing his outfit. Harry smiled into his face. 

There was a beat and then Draco returned the smile, though it disappeared quickly. He still looked pale, peaky, distracted. Harry tried to think of what to say, but didn’t need to because Draco set his shoulders and said, “I’m just bored. That’s all it is. I’m bored.”

Harry looked at him and then nodded. He stood up quickly, turning back to extend his hand to Draco and tug him up. “Then let’s go do something fun.”

“How? I’m stuck here.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Don’t be a baby. We’ll find something.”

They did. Harry refused to let Draco say no to anything. He challenged him to races across the grounds, easily beating him which horrified Draco to no end. His face was red from exertion and his eyes were bright with competitiveness as he got into Harry’s face and accused him of cheating, loudly and at length. 

Harry laughed so hard it hurt and shoved him backwards, nearly toppling him over. “I’m the one out running with dogs every day while you stir your potions, dickhead,” Harry said. “You’re just sore you can’t beat me.”

“Watch me, Potter,” Draco declared, taking off in the other direction. Harry counted to five and ran after him, laughter as bright as the sun spilling from him. When he caught up to Draco, he grabbed him around the waist and threw him to the ground, straddling him as he declared himself the winner of everything. Draco scowled and looked aggrieved and pulled Harry down to kiss him hard enough that it left Harry more breathless than the running. 

When they separated, they were both panting. Harry’s mouth was kiss-slick and Draco’s hair had been ruined. He stared at him and then said, “Your mother is literally in her rose garden around the corner.”

Groaning, Draco said, “I hate you so much it makes my insides hurt.”

“You’re such a whinge, Malfoy.” Harry laughed as he stood and then helped Draco up. His cheeks were bright. He wanted to kiss Draco again but Narcissa was nearby and Harry had decided that he was going to be a gentleman. He wanted Draco to not be _bored_ and he didn’t think they needed to kiss to do that. It was just an added bonus. 

Tilting his head backwards, he looked up into the sky. Clouds were spread all over, light grey and hazy. The sun had burnt off some of them, letting blue peek through, and it didn’t look like it was going to rain. He glanced over at Draco and said, “Let’s fly.”

Draco scowled. “I can’t leave the grounds.”

“We’ll stay in bounds, Draco.” Harry thought he had the patience of a saint. “I promise not to hurt your feelings by thoroughly trouncing you a million times.”

Nostrils flaring, Draco turned on his heel and started to stomp across the grass towards the shed where the brooms were kept. Harry laughed at his back. 

“I’m going to lay waste to you,” Draco shouted over his shoulder. “You’re going to beg me for mercy. You’re going to be so thoroughly embarrassed that you won’t be able to show your face in public for over a fortnight and when you do you’re still going to look sheepish and the Prophet will write about it and I’ll save the article because it will bring me great joy until my dying day.”

Catching up to Draco, Harry fell into step beside him and said, “Please don’t tell me more about how you’re gonna wank over me when you’re like a hundred. It’s making me a bit ill, you creepy old perv.”

Draco looked affronted. “We’re the _same age_. We’d be the same age! If I was a hundred, so would you be!”

“But you’d be wanking over younger me,” Harry said. “That’d be perverted.”

“How?” Draco threw open the doors of the shed. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Of course it makes sense. You just don’t want to admit you’re a perv.” Harry folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe as Draco surveyed the inside of the shed. He could tell that it had once been bigger, better, filled with more brooms. They had sold many of them off, or the Death Eaters had taken them and never returned them. There was still a small collection and Draco clearly decided on two, handing one to Harry and keeping the other for himself. 

“I’m not a perv. You’re really picking this up wrong.” Draco shoved Harry back out of the shed into the day. “I’m going to keep the picture to gloat over.”

“Wank over.”

“I loathe you.” 

Harry’s smile was quicksilver and he jumped onto the broom. “No you don’t,” he said and then they were kicking off, heading higher, brooms pointed almost straight up. Harry’s heart surged and his chest expanded. There was a huge amount of space in his lungs and the air swept in, filling him up, making him bigger than he had been. The wind rushed by his ears and Harry could do nothing but shout with it, looping delightedly back until he was staring at Draco. 

Draco looked at him once and then nodded, turning his broom down and dipping into a twist that Harry sat back and watched. He wanted to clap. He wanted to tell Draco that he thought he was a great flier, that he wanted to hear him laugh and whoop and give himself to the air. He wanted to tell him that joy was waiting for him. He wanted to tell him so many things, but he opened his mouth and he knew the wind would steal his words. 

Instead, he cheered. He watched Draco loop through the air and twist, his pale hair flying behind him. Harry watched Draco race birds and laugh and then he dropped in and flew along beside him, racing him and copying him and laughing with him. They played a form of broom tag, which left each of them nearly hanging off their brooms at multiple points, reaching for the other. They changed the rules constantly, shifting the goalposts of the game to make it more fun, more thrilling, _riskier_. Once or twice, Narcissa shouted up at them and Draco would laugh down and try to soothe her and Harry would point his broom straight up and fly as high as he could. 

Draco always followed him. 

By the time they were finished it was well into the afternoon. Harry barely would have noticed. He ate better now, but the years at the Dursley’s and the year on the run had changed his appetite, made it easier for him to ignore when he was hungry. Draco flew up to him at one point, his face wild and alive and gleeful, and said, “Come on, Potter. We’ve left lunch so late that it’s practically dinner.”

Blinking his surprise, Harry nodded and then looked at the ground. “Race you down.”

They did race, the pace breakneck, Draco just behind Harry the whole way. The ground approached faster than Harry expected and he pulled up at the last moment; Draco’s reflexes were not quite as good and he ended up tumbling onto the grass. There was a thump and a groan but when Harry came over to him he just said, “I’m only winded.”

Harry nodded and then threw himself onto the grass beside him. They looked up at the sky, which had started to darken slightly. The clouds were not as clear anymore and there was the faint threat of rain. Harry reached over and grabbed Draco’s hand. 

“Are you good now?” he asked, twining their fingers together. 

Draco nodded and turned his head to the side. Harry felt Draco’s eyes scanning his profile, felt how intently he was looking at him. He didn’t turn his own head. He kept looking straight up at the sky, holding Draco’s hand tightly, forcing air into his lungs.

There was an exhale and Draco turned onto his side, still holding onto Harry’s hand. “Did you get it?” he asked, voice low. 

Harry thought about staring at the sky still, a spike of fear lancing through him. He couldn’t though. That was cowardly. He squeezed Draco’s fingers tighter and turned his head to look into Draco’s face. He looked worried, his eyes suddenly tight and distant. His face was still red from the flying and there was sweat gathering in the dip of his throat. Harry looked at it for a moment and then back at Draco’s face. He nodded.

“Yeah, I got it.” His reply was as soft and low as Draco’s question had been. It felt like they were whispering secrets in a crowded room, even though they were the only two on the grounds now. There was no need to whisper. They still did. 

Draco swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Are you going to say anything?”

“I’m saying something.” Harry closed his eyes for a moment and then, “What do you think this is? Today is?”

Silence swirled around them for a minute as Draco tilted his head, surveying Harry and then looking over at where their brooms were hovering patiently, waiting for them. Harry watched his expression change, shift, and then watched Draco swallow again. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Let’s go eat, Potter.”

“I’d be delighted to join you, Malfoy,” Harry said softly. Draco smiled, his eyes bright even though his mouth looked like an unsteady line. They collected the brooms and returned them, shoving at each other in the shed, pushing each other out of the way as they tramped into the kitchen. Blighter appeared immediately to dissuade them from cooking and took an order for dinner before ushering them away. 

Harry trailed after Draco to his room and then pressed him against the bedroom door and took off his clothes as easy as breathing. When he slid down his body and dropped to his knees, Draco mewled and twisted his hands in Harry’s hair. He looked down at him, eyes glittering with something Harry wouldn’t, couldn’t name. 

“Come on, Potter,” he said, lazily. “I’ve not got all day for you.”

The way he said it sounded like _I’ve got every day for you._

Harry laughed and grinned and took Draco into his mouth as deeply as he could. When Draco gasped, something thrummed through Harry that he couldn’t name. 

He didn’t leave that night until very late, curling up in his bed at home with a smile on his face. 

The next morning, as he made breakfast for the household, Harry sang. He sang real songs and made up ones, about eggs and tomatoes and how milky Ron liked his tea. He sang about the fact the next day was March and that he started a new job in a couple of days. He kept singing until Ron and Hermione walked in, walked back out, and then came into the room again.

Harry wasn’t sure what they were doing until Ron said, loudly, “You see now how the strange creature, Harrifucus Potterus, cannot seem to hold a note but how that doesn’t bother him. It actually acts as a defence mechanism.”

“Hmm interesting,” Hermione said, stroking at her non-existent beard. Harry waved a spatula at them but neither Ron nor Hermione cracked a smile. “I can see how that would scare away predators — it’s quite a cacophonous sound.”

“Indubitably,” Ron said and Hermione wrinkled her nose. “He seems to have developed a glow as well, but for the love of God nor money, we mustn’t ask. The Harrificus Potterus animal can be both quite private and prone to oversharing.”

“You two are bastards,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. 

Ron gasped. “He insults our honour!”

Hermione placed her hand flat on her chest in mock-horror. “He shall have to be punished for it!”

Harry was trying extremely hard not to smile. He could tell it was failing. “I’m being punished? But I’m making you breakfast.”

“Not good enough!” Hermione declared, shaking her head. She came to stand beside Harry and looked down at the shakshouka that he was making. Patting his arm, she said, “Oh this looks delicious, Harry.” 

Quickly catching herself on, her voice sliding back into the affected one she had been using with Ron, Hermione said, “Your punishment shall be it is you who has to clean the bathroom this week. Don’t you agree, Ronald?”

Ron came up behind Hermione and looped his arm around her waist, leaning over her to look at breakfast. “I quite agree, Hermionicus.”

“Don’t call me that.” Hermione elbowed him lightly in the ribs and Ron pretended it hurt more than it did. Harry beamed at them as he watched the way Ron pressed a kiss to the top of Hermione’s head and how she pulled him towards the kitchen table. He didn’t go back to singing but he hummed as he cracked eggs into the shakshouka and waited for them to cook, keeping a careful eye. 

When it was done, he brought it over to the table and dished up everyone’s breakfast, setting the leftovers carefully to the side before he took a seat again. 

Conversation flowed and ebbed and, finally, once her plate was cleared, Hermione said, “Harry, do you know what you’re doing with Malfoy?”

Harry blinked at her, halfway through a sip of tea. “What?”

“Do you know what you’re doing? Are you sure? Are you happy?” Hermione had the ability to look intense very quickly and she looked it now, wide, assessing eyes fixed on him. “We’re not — Ron has been telling me, but I wanted all of us to talk about it.”

“Talk about it?” Harry repeated, like an idiot. He stared at his mug. “Do I not seem happy?” The idea that he didn’t seem happy was ridiculous to him. 

Ron snorted. “Mate, you were singing about tomatoes about twenty minutes ago. You seem happy.”

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Harry’s shoulders drew up towards his ears. 

Immediately, Hermione reached out, wrapping her hand over his and squeezing it. “That’s not what I meant,” she said sharply. “Of course it’s weird, though. You know it’s weird. But we know you and we trust you and Malfoy’s wrote to each of us quite a bit, actually.”

“What?” Harry startled, staring between Hermione and Ron. Hermione just looked at him steadily but Ron flushed, his skin turning red. “Since when? What?”

Ron coughed. “I didn’t want to — well, he wrote to apologise or whatever.”

“Or whatever?”

“Honestly, Ron.” Hermione rolled her eyes. “He wrote each of us a letter to apologise for things in the war. He asked us not to tell you. It wasn’t long after you first went to visit, I think. I wrote back, but Ron didn’t.”

“Uh, yes I did!” Ron interjected, frowning. 

“About a month later.”

“I still wrote back.”

Harry leaned back in his chair and listened to his friends bicker amongst themselves. He heard Hermione tell Ron that that wasn’t a good enough time frame but he also barely heard it. The words hit him and then fell away. Draco had written to Ron and Hermione and had barely mentioned it. If he scanned back, he could remember Draco assuring him that he’d reached out but there had been no mention of _sustained communication._

Blinking himself back into the present, Harry realised that both Ron and Hermione were looking at him. “You’re writing to him a lot?”

“Not a lot,” Ron said, pulling a face. “Sometimes he asks questions and I answer them.”

“About me?” 

“Not all the time. Sometimes they’re normal things. I thought he was losing it because one time he asked me to describe a normal day.” Ron looked a little bit uncomfortable as he thought about it. “Felt like I was in some creative writing class.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I told you. It’s because he can’t leave.”

“I know, but it was still bloody weird.”

“Did you do it?” Harry asked, because it was a question he knew how to ask and it was easier than trying to pull apart what he really wanted to say. 

“I guess so. Malfoy said I did not have the gift of a prose writer. He’s not very nice, but I think he’s funny sometimes.”

Harry’s mouth curled into a smile, almost a secret, tucked away at the edges. “Yeah. Yeah I think so too.”

Hermione watched him with kind eyes. “Harry, we just thought it would be nice to talk all together.”

“Hermione thought it would be nice,” Ron said. He did not really need to but it made Harry smile anyway, especially when Hermione quite clearly kicked him under the table. The wince made it funnier. 

“I did think it would be easier. I wanted to talk to you.” Hermione reached out to grab his hand again. Harry let her. “We want you to be happy and healthy. Malfoy is — and was — a difficult choice. You know that, right?”

Harry snorted. “Hermione, I know he’s difficult.”

“Does it bother you?” 

Harry looked at Ron instead of back at Hermione. Ron was leaning back in his chair, his arms folded, watching them. Harry recognised the look on his face from the hours that they had spent together playing chess. He was looking at the pieces in front of them, trying to anticipate their moves. His mouth was curved slightly. He was watching Harry just as intently as Hermione had been, but he wasn’t speaking now. He just looked like he was listening. 

“No,” Harry said finally. “He doesn’t bother me. I mean, he bothers me all the time but not like that. I think I know what I’m doing.”

Hermione looked at Ron and then back at Harry. Ron nodded and Hermione squeezed his hand and said, “You’re allowed to talk to us about it. I’m not going to pretend that he wasn’t a heinous child, teenager and young adult but I think he’s...trying.”

Harry thought about Draco leaning over cauldrons and worrying himself sick and how he paced sometimes, relentlessly. He pictured the nightmares he’d been told about and the way that Draco shook occasionally, trembling throughout the day. Harry pictured the boy he had known and the almost-man that he knew now. He remembered Draco’s soft voice telling him secrets and asking him not to repeat them. 

“I think he’s trying too. I have a lot of faith in him.”

A faint smile flickered across Hermione’s face. Harry drank it in and lifted his eyes to look at Ron, who looked solemn but open. 

“We’ve faith in your heart, mate,” Ron said. 

Harry wanted to hug them and he could, so he did. 

“You never told me that you were writing to Ron and Hermione,” Harry said from the doorway of the kitchen. 

Draco startled and looked up, his quill scrawling a line across the page. Harry sniggered but didn’t move, his laughter dying off as Draco scowled. It was a quick scowl, there and gone, clearly replaced by embarrassment. 

“Yes I did,” Draco said. “You just didn’t listen to me.”

“No,” Harry said slowly. “I’m very sure I would have remembered you bringing it up properly. It seems like something I’d pay attention to.”

Draco’s expression was very haughty when he said, “You don’t pay an awful lot of attention to anything. You’ve a terrible attention span.” Harry loved it. The haughtier Draco looked the more taken aback he was. He knew that now. 

“I do, sometimes,” Harry admitted. He still refused to move. The doorframe was his new home, it was where he stood and let himself be propped up. “But Ron and Hermione are my best friends and I _know_ for a fact that you never said ‘hey, Harry, just as an FYI I’m writing to your friends sometimes, just for the laugh of it all.’”

Draco sighed loudly. He set his quill down and folded his hands in front of him. It was very prim, which was hilarious. Harry tried not to smile. “For your information,” Draco said, “it wasn’t at all for a laugh. As you know, I have a mandatory meeting once a week with one of the therapists that the Ministry approved. She suggested that I write out everything that I had done. She suggested I try to make amends.”

Harry nodded. “So that’s what it was?”

Suddenly, Draco looked shifty. It was amazing how quickly that happened, how quickly his expression shifted from prim and proper to sly and shifty. Barely anything changed but Harry saw it nonetheless. “Yes.”

“Liar.” Harry pushed himself off the doorframe and walked to side down in a seat at the table opposite Draco. “Tell the truth.”

“No.”

“Go on. Tell the truth.”

Draco sniffed. “No.”

“Tell the truth. I dare you.”

Draco rolled his eyes. He glared at Harry and then glared down at his notes in front of him. “Dares don’t work on everyone, Harry. We’re not all children or Gryffindors or Gryffindors who are _children._ ”

It made Harry laugh, but he knew this was serious and he reached out, grabbing onto Draco’s wrist. He held onto the fine bones until Draco looked up properly. Maintaining eye contact, he said, “Tell me why.”

Draco swallowed and then said, “Because they were important to you.” His face was aflame. Embarrassment was evident in every minute movement he made. Draco twitched his fingers and then pulled his wrist out of Harry’s grasp. Harry let him go. “Don’t make a thing out of it, Potter.”

“Why would I make a thing out of it, Malfoy?” Harry asked, eyes glittering. “That doesn’t sound like something to make a thing out of at all.”

Draco snorted. “Yet, here you are, turning up to ask questions when you found out.”

Harry hummed in the back of his throat and sat back in his chair. He folded his arms over his chest, unconsciously mimicking Ron’s position in their earlier conversation, as he looked around the Malfoy kitchen. “I’m a questioning sort of person.”

“Now who’s a liar?” Draco said, snorting. 

Harry shot him a grin and then said, “Well, thanks. You know. For trying. I appreciate that.”

Instantly, Draco turned bright red. It was like looking at Ron. He stood up fast and cleared his throat. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

Harry laughed as Draco fled the room, trying to stifle it behind his hand and failing miserably. 

It was only part way through his first day that Harry realised he had never had a first day on the job before. No matter what had come before — the DA, or the Order, or finding Horcuxes — none of it had been actual, gainful adult employment. He tried not to let the thought throw him for a loop as the receptionist, whose name was Betty, helped him fill in some forms and showed him how the appointment system worked. “Just in case,” she had said. “We all pitch in around here as much as we can!”

Harry liked that. He liked the atmosphere. He didn’t like how several of the other employees blinked in shock and surprise when they saw him but he was trying to get more used to it and he supposed it wasn’t fair to completely write them off because of it. 

His first week flew in. Harry felt weariness tugging at him throughout, but he was just glad that he was enjoying it, glad that Patrick seemed to have taken a liking to him and had Harry in as many of his appointments as he could. They had gone out to a local farm only yesterday and when Harry landed home he had chattered Ron and Hermione’s ear off about. Then, he’d chattered Lavender’s ear off about it over breakfast. Once it reached eleven a.m. and it was late enough that it was probably acceptable to go to the Malfoy’s, Harry left to chatter their ear off about it. 

He found Narcissa back in the rose garden. She smiled and listened to him and asked questions and nodded. They talked for twenty minutes and when he asked where Draco was and how he had been, Narcissa’s face looked a little pinched. 

“He was always so full of life,” Narcissa said finally, with a movement that almost looked like a shrug. His expression must have done something because she quickly added, “He’s fine! I just — I rather worry.”

Harry pushed a smile onto his face and nodded and left. He found Draco in a long portrait gallery, which was currently completely empty of any portraits. Draco was sitting in the corner, on the ground, a book propped against one knee and the other drew up. He looked up when Harry entered. 

“Good morning, Potter,” he said pleasantly. There was something like relief on his face. 

“Good morning, Malfoy,” Harry said and then, seized by the urge, he bowed slightly. Draco laughed and then frowned. 

“What was that for?”

“You were being extremely formal. I just continued it.”

“You’re an idiot. Come here.” Harry went easily. The gallery was long so it took him longer than he would have liked to reach Draco and then he sank down beside him. He tugged at the book in Draco’s hand and Draco relinquished it easily, but Harry returned it almost immediately. It was about the history of healing potions and it wasn’t that Harry didn’t think that was useful — it was just ridiculously boring and he would rather have plucked his eyes out than read it. Draco smiled fondly at him. 

“Can I tell you about my week?” Harry asked. “I’m gainfully employed now. I’m a member of the working force. A proper adult.”

Draco scrunched up his nose and pulled a face. “Sounds horrific.”

“No, it’s brilliant,” Harry said. “It was a great idea. I think I’m going to like working with animals.”

“Well that makes sense,” Draco said slowly, “seeing as you are an animal yourself.” He looked inordinately pleased with himself, slanting a sly, amused look at Harry. Harry smiled back at him and elbowed him in the ribs. 

“Prick.”

“Arsehole.”

“Dickhead.”

“Idiot.”

“I’m going to tell you about my job now,” Harry announced. “You’re going to be blown away by how clever I am.”

Draco laughed and said, “I’m always blown away by you.” He instantly blushed and added, “Not by your cleverness, as you really are daft.”

“Right, of course,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “Shut it now.”

Draco shut it. He was almost silent as Harry told him about his week, as he doled out tales of the different animals he had seen and everything he could remember Patrick say. Draco moved his head to watch Harry talk and Harry knew he had his full attention, could tell how deeply he was listening. Draco’s eyes followed every single one of Harry’s hand movements and eventually he reached out, catching hold of Harry’s hand, and turning it over to trace the lines of his palm. Harry shuddered, a spark of pleasure going up his spine, but he kept talking and talking until he felt like he’d talked too much. 

It was only when he stopped that he realised Draco was smiling at him. 

“You’re so passionate,” he said.

Harry coloured. “I’m excited.”

“Good.” Draco stopped tracing lines on Harry’s palm and instead moved his fingers up, curling them through Harry’s. He stared down at their joined hands and Harry stared at him. 

He thought about what Narcissa had said and heard himself ask, “Do you think you’re losing your life here?”

Draco started. It was extremely physical. He pushed himself forward, spine snapping straight and pulling him away from the wall. His shoulders tensed and he turned his head to look at Harry, eyebrows lifted, jaw slack. His hand was still clutching onto Harry’s but it was much tighter. Harry made himself be soft. 

“What?” Draco’s voice was sharp.

Harry squeezed his hand. “Do you think you’re losing your life?” he repeated, gentle. 

Draco stared at him and then laughed. “Harry, don’t be stupid. Of course I am.”

“Oh.” 

“No. No. Look, it’s called justice. I — I’m trapped here because I tried to ruin a lot of other people’s lives. I tried to ruin yours too, once. I’ve had a lot of time with it and I think I get it. It’s only fair that I lose some of mine.” Draco still looked stern and hard, but there was a deep melancholy in his voice that Harry hated. He hated it, which was strange, because at the same time he was fiercely proud of Draco. “Of course I’m losing some of my life though. It’s the whole point.”

“Oh,” Harry said again, but it was different this time. He thought he got it now. He ran his thumb up Draco’s and moved closer to him, chasing his body heat. Pressing a kiss to the hinge of Draco’s jaw he said, “I think you’ve got a great life ahead of you. I’m really proud of you.”

Draco’s neck was red. He scoffed but it sounded weak. “Okay, Dad.”

“Please, Draco. I won’t indulge your daddy kink.”

Draco made a deeply affronted noise and dropped Harry’s hand, shoving him away from him. Harry laughed and toppled onto his side and then reached out to pull Draco down with him. They wrestled, tussling with one another, and when the wrestling turned into writhing on the floor, Harry gave himself over with abandon. 

All he ever wanted was this. 

That night when Harry got home the house was quiet. There was a note stuck on the cupboard where the teabags were kept that read _Date night! - R & H xo_. Harry grinned at it and made himself the biggest mug of tea he could and drank it. He showered with the radio blasting, singing along to Motown songs that made his heart soar. He walked naked to his room without worrying about anyone seeing him and when he got there he let impulse guide him. 

He sat at the desk and took out a pen, pulling a notepad towards him and writing.

> _Draco,_
> 
> _When I’m not around you, I think about you. It happens a lot. It happens more than I can admit to you. I meant it when I said I was proud of you. I’m glad I know you now._
> 
> _Harry_

Before he had time to think about it, he made his way down to Ron and Hermione’s room and sent the owl.

Draco’s reply came back that night, a short response that his owl did not wait for.

> _You disgusting sap._

Harry fell asleep smiling.

Harry came home at the start of April to the sound of Hermione crying. Dropping his backpack, his heart seized, his chest constricted with fear and Harry’s legs pumped, carrying him through the house. The back door was open and Hermione was sitting on the back step, bent over. Harry shouted her name and she turned. 

He couldn’t hear her. Harry could hear only his frenzied heartbeat in his ears and the voice in his head that told him where to check for injuries. His wand was out and his blood was pounding, rushing through him, urging him on. He was casting diagnostic spells quickly and then Hermione said his name loud enough to break through the fog that had come over him. 

“ _Harry_.” Her voice was desperate and her nails dug into his skin. Harry looked up at her and there were tears all over Hermione’s face but she didn’t look devastated. “Harry, I swear I’m fine.”

His legs didn’t feel like they were working. Harry lowered himself and stared into Hermione’s face. “But you’re crying.”

“I am.” Hermione shot him a watery smile and then held up what was in her hands, a letter that looked crumpled. “My parents sent me a letter.”

Blinking at her, Harry looked at the letter and then tentatively held his hand out. “What does it say?” he asked, even as Hermione gave it to him.

She started to cry again, but she was smiling and she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “They said they want me to come visit. They said they’re starting to remember. They said they want to _see me._ ” She sobbed again, huge sobs which wracked her whole body. Harry dropped the letter and folded Hermione close into him, running a hand up and down her back. He muttered words to her, words of comfort and love and reassurance and Hermione cried onto his shoulder. 

“I was so scared, Harry. I thought — I thought this was it. I thought it was my punishment, like it was hubris, and they wouldn’t ever remember and it would be all my fault.” Hermione gasped it out and Harry felt how much it must have hurt her. Even now, her body held that hurt. Even now, he felt the way she shuddered with the thought. Harry hugged her tighter. 

“It’s going to be okay,” he said and he believed it. Sitting back, he placed his hands on her shoulders and said, “They’re remembering. We’re gonna get you there. You’re going to be just fine and so are they.”

Hermione started to cry again and Harry found himself blinking harshly, trying not to. 

Neither of them noticed the footsteps that announced Ron’s arrival until he cleared his throat and said, “Uh, did someone fucking die? What the hell’s going on?”

As one, Harry and Hermione turned to him and Hermione reached out. Ron came to her instantly, confusion on his face. She pulled him down and folded him into their hug and said, with wonder, “My parents remember who I _am_.”

Nobody moved from the ground for quite some time. When they finally did it was to order a Chinese, which came as they were devising plans. Ron would get the Portkey sorted and Harry had money. Hermione protested and Harry insisted, solemn and serious, and eventually she nodded. They were going to ask a professional to go back to Australia with Hermione and Harry would pay them. The Grangers were going to come home. 

“We’ll get our stuff moved out,” Harry said, tentatively, and Hermione shook her head. 

“Harry, no. You’re family. You live here. I’ll explain it.”

Harry squeezed Hermione’s hand and loved her ferociously. “Honestly, Hermione. It’s fine. I think your parents need a bit of normality.”

“But you’re _family_ ,” Hermione insisted with wide eyes. She looked cried out, exhausted and yet somehow happy, an ease in her expression which had been missing for months, if not years. 

“I know,” Harry said. “And you’re my family, too. But you have to take care of this one — the one with your parents. And I can live somewhere else while you do that.”

Hermione sniffled again and then she was crying, grabbing for Harry’s hand and then Ron’s. “I’m just so scared of hoping too much,” she whispered.

“Don’t be,” Ron said, wrapping an arm around her. “Hope all you can, Hermione. It’ll be worth it.”

Harry met Ron’s eyes over the top of Hermione’s head and thought he believed that, too.

It took longer than Harry expected to help Hermione leave and, at the same time, it came round too quickly. He clutched Ron’s hand as they said goodbye to her and they got drunk that night, so drunk that he couldn’t sit up straight until at least dinner time the next day and the hangover didn’t seem to leave his body for days afterwards. Draco laughed at him but made him tea and fed him toast and petted his hair a time or too. He tried to hide it from Patrick and Betty at work but they both independently teased him about it. 

Harry flushed thinking about it for weeks afterwards. 

It was strange moving himself out of Hermione’s home. He had thought about it as his home for so long that stripping the room of his belongings made something kick in his ribs. There was a moment, as he packed his photographs away, when Harry felt so breathless he had to sit down and bend forward, forcing himself to breathe. Panic gripped him, the unbidden thought ripping through him that he was never going to get somewhere he belonged. That this was going to be his life forever, darting between people’s spare rooms, never making a home he could stay in for very long. 

Harry squeezed his eyes together and told himself it wasn’t true. Hermione had _told_ him he could stay there; the Weasley’s had opened their arms to him. He had Grimmauld Place and he had a vault and he could _buy_ a new home if he wanted. He had Hermione, and Ron, and Ginny, and Lavender and Draco. He was wanted. He had people who cared. 

Moving out of Hermione’s house didn’t mean she didn’t want him there. Moving out of the temporary stopping place that had been his home didn’t negate that he had lived there and been loved there and tried to repair himself there. 

It just meant that that part of his life was over. 

He shook himself and splashed water in his face afterwards and studied his reflection. He looked at the pile of photographs and seized the last of his bags up and apparated to Grimmauld Place. The repairs had rather fallen by the wayside, a grand idea he had wanted to do and then got too caught up in other things. As Harry stood out on the pavement in front of the house, clutching bags of his belongings, he thought maybe he could make it work. Maybe this could be his home.

When he pushed open the door, he thought maybe it didn’t matter if it wasn’t. He would find one. He would find somewhere he loved and he would be okay. 

He wrote a letter to Draco from the floor of his new ( _permanent_ for the moment) bedroom. Harry had agreed to mind Hermione’s owl, which he felt was an important step forward. He still didn’t want his own owl, a part of him pulling away from the thought, his heart twisting when he thought about Hedwig. 

As he scribbled off his note, he thought that maybe he could get his own after.

> _Draco_
> 
> _I moved in today. My home is mine and for tonight I’m alone. Ron’s coming, obviously, but not for a few nights. I think he wants to stay at home and reassure his mum. I reckon with everything going on with Hermione’s parents it’s good for him. I don’t mind being on my own. I was always alone when I was a kid and I got good at it._
> 
> _There’s not a lot here. I started redoing it over the summer but I sorta gave it up. I used to do parts of it with Ginny and when we broke up it didn’t really hold the same appeal. I’m over that now though. I want to keep going. I’ve never really had a space to call my own before and I think I like the sound of it._
> 
> _Another thing I think I’d like: once you can leave, I’d like you to be here. I’ll have done more. I’d like to show it to you. I want you to be here, in a space I’ve made my own. I think I’d really like that._
> 
> _I’m tired so sorry if this doesn’t make sense. I hope you’re asleep. It’s late._
> 
> _Harry_

When the response came, it was early the next morning. Harry had fallen asleep in a curled up ball in the middle of the bed with the window open and the curtains not fully closed. Sunlight slithered in, cut-glass and bright, but it wouldn’t have woken him up yet if it wasn’t for Herbert. Harry blinked into wakefulness and grabbed for his glasses, staring at the owl in front of him. 

Herbert hooted and hollered, jumping around and pecking Harry when he wasn’t quick enough to get the letter off. Harry groaned and took the note, unrolling it even as he cast a spell. It was _quarter to seven_ in the morning. Harry bloody hated Draco. 

Squinting blearily at the words, Harry read them and then sat up straight, shock forcing him into alertness. Staring down at Draco’s crisp, fancy handwriting, he reread it again. 

__

> _Harry,_
> 
> _I confess that I have done little but read your letter since it arrived. From anyone else, I would think it a little cruel but, from you, I know it’s only earnest and heartfelt. Everything you do is heartfelt. It makes me feel small, sometimes. A confession: I think I would be quite happy to be in your shadow._
> 
> _I would love to visit. Once I can leave here, I promise I will. I would love it._
> 
> _Another thing I think I’d love: probably you._
> 
> _~~Y~~ Yours,_
> 
> _Draco_

Harry made a keening noise and fell back onto the bed. He stared at the words and then looked towards his window. The owl had flown through it ages ago, evidently told not to wait for a reply. Harry blinked into the spring sunlight, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face, turning towards it like a flower. He closed his eyes and tried to take a catalogue of himself.

Once upon a time, it had been Harry’s most outlandish dream that someone would love him. It had seemed so thoroughly out of his grasp when he was an unwanted orphan, shoved into the cold bosom of a family who hated him. He had been trouble; he had been a freak; he had been the scum on their shoe. He hadn’t known love and he hadn’t known kindness. A part of him had been terrified that he would never know how to give and receive that ever since; on his worst days, he thought that maybe there was something fundamental broken within him. Ron and Hermione had changed him. _Dumbledore_ had changed him, Hogwarts had reshaped him, remade him. Getting to know Sirius and Remus, pulling the threads of his past out and exposing them to the light had made him into someone new. Harry had looked into Voldemort’s face and saw hate and knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he wasn’t made for it. He _loved_ and he had felt the rush of love from his parents, from everyone who had loved him who died, and known that he had to come back to the people who loved him who _lived._

Even then, there had been a niggling doubt. He loved his friends and it was more than he had ever hoped for or imagined. Nine year old Harry Potter, shoved into a cupboard under the stairs and staring at spiders, could not have comprehended the depth of love his friend’s had for him. Nineteen year old Harry Potter, lying on his own bed in his own house, still approached it with awe. He could accept that, could even understand it but this — he knew this was different. 

If he had thought about this ever happening, in a dream, Harry had expected it to feel like fireworks. He had expected the riotous explosion in his chest, the wave of emotion that would overtake him and make him feel like he was drowning. In his dreams, he would have expected it to feel like a bludger to the chest. It didn’t.

The surprise had hit him first, the shock of it making his heart stutter in his chest and his lungs become momentarily incapable of breath but that passed. He felt the sun on his face warming him and clutched Draco’s note in the other hand. Harry realised that’s how he felt: warm. The sun was rising in his chest, warming him from the inside out, illuminating and making everything bright and new. He felt kissed by nature. He didn’t think he felt different — he felt like himself but brighter, stronger, reborn somehow.

Harry had come back to life so many times before, but this felt like an entirely different life he found himself in. 

Grinning, he realised he was crumpling the note. He read it again and again, tucking the words into a secret place in his chest. He wanted to remember them. He wanted to never forget them. He felt like he was soaring, expanding, like he was brave and brilliant somehow. He felt exactly like he had that day he had forced Draco to fly with him to try to prove that life wasn’t boring and dull. 

Harry thought maybe he was in love. 

Stretching like a cat into the sunlight, he flipped onto his stomach and stared out the window. It was still early but he could hear the faint signs of London stirring outside. 

The worst part was that he couldn’t go now, he thought. Draco was awake, probably, but Harry wasn’t sure. Maybe he had dashed the note off and then retired to bed. That seemed like something he would do. 

Pulling himself out of bed, Harry considered his course of action as he showered. He would get dressed and make breakfast and think about not going over to the Malfoy’s until it was an acceptable time to visit someone. He would do that. 

He did not do that. 

Once out of the shower, Harry moved automatically. He dressed haphazardly, ridiculously, barely paying attention to the clothes he pulled onto his body. His feet did not even make the smallest effort to carry him to the kitchen. Instead, they took him to his wand and then he was outside and then he was on the lane at Malfoy Manor and his heart was in his throat. 

Draco’s note was in his hand. 

Harry blinked wondrously and walked up the llane. As he walked, he thought about firelight on Draco’s pale hair and how cold his hands got and how easily he flushed. He pictured Malfoy’s eyes and thought about his hands in Harry’s hair and how their hips fit together. 

He was almost at the front door when it was flung open. Harry paused for barely a second, threw his shoulders back and walked closer. 

Draco hovered in the doorway. He was wearing dark navy pyjamas with gold around the lapel and small gold buttons. They looked soft and comfortable and his hair looked like he had been pulling his hands through it, rumpling it until it stuck up. Harry caught his eye and stared. Draco looked away, nervously. 

“I got your letter,” Harry said, coming to a stop right in front of him. 

“I gathered,” Draco said, clearly trying to sound unaffected. He couldn’t; his voice was husky and raw, scraping against Harry’s ears. It made him smile, but Draco wasn’t looking directly at him and missed it. 

“Look at me, Draco.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Look at me, Draco,” Harry said but he didn’t leave it to chance, or Draco’s bravery, or any hope that may have been fluttering in his heart. He reached out and placed two fingers gently under Draco’s pointed chin, turning his head to him. When they made eye contact, Harry could see that Draco’s eyes were wild, dark grey and roiling. His shoulders were tense and his eyes caught Harry’s then slid away. Harry stood and stared at him and said, “Please.”

Draco took a deep breath and then looked directly at Harry. 

“I don’t want you to be in my shadow, Draco,” Harry said, removing his hand from under Draco’s gin. “You said that and I — I don’t want that for you. I don’t want it for anyone. I think you shine brightly enough on your own. I think you’re going to do great things.”

Draco’s nostrils flared and his body shuddered. Harry could see the movement through his pyjamas. “Is that it?” 

“No. But I wanted you to know that I would never, ever expect that from you. I don’t want it. And nothing I’ve to say is based on you doing that.” Harry stepped even further forward. Draco’s breath hitched and Harry cupped his face, his fingers moving back into Draco’s hair and tugging him forward so he could rest his forehead against Draco’s. “What do you mean by probably you?”

They were so close that when Draco swallowed Harry almost felt it. “Harry, please,” he said, soft, pleading.

“Draco, please,” Harry said, pleading too. “Just tell me. Just say it to me.”

Draco opened his mouth to speak and then sighed. He dragged his tongue across his lips, nervously wetting the lower one and Harry watched it. He wanted to kiss him but his ears were ringing and his heart was pounding and he needed to hear it. Draco breathed out again and it was practically into Harry’s mouth. He tightened his fingers in his hair. 

“I hate this,” he murmured and then, voice stronger, Draco continued. “I don’t know if I do. I’m not telling you that I do. I just think that...I could. I feel like I could. I feel like it’s you.”

Harry’s eyes fluttered closed and he huffed out a laugh. His chest still felt like he was expanding and he tilted his head to brush his lips gently against Draco’s. Draco tried to deepen it, reaching forward to place his hands on Harry’s hips and Harry pulled back. “What if I said,” Harry began slowly, watching Draco’s face carefully, “that I think it’s you? I can feel it. I think you’re there, in my heart.”

Draco froze for a moment, his expression slate-clean and then it lit up. Harry watched him and he could see the sunrise inside him, the light from the knowledge of love illuminating him. He wondered if he’d looked like this but decided there was no way. Draco looked magnificent, resplendent and Harry grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him in to kiss him. 

It was a hungry kiss, all teeth at first and then they were pulling at each other, hands grasping. Draco bit at his bottom lip and demanded entry; Harry yielded and laughed into his mouth. “Shut up, Potter,” he growled, hands hard on Harry’s hips as he pulled him forward. Harry couldn’t respond because he was too busy tumbling into a kiss he wanted to live in. 

Draco was the one who broke it, one moment a solid presence in front of Harry, and the next pushing him gently away. His mouth was red and ruined. His hair looked even worse than it had before. His eyes were shining bright. 

“Do you mean it?” he demanded. He looked imperious but Harry thought it was a trick of the light. He could see the hope and the anxiety warring in him. 

“Draco,” Harry said, reaching for his hand. “I mean it. I’d not say if I didn’t.”

“Oh.” Draco was silent for a second and then he beamed at Harry, so wide and brilliant that Harry would have won another war to be given the gift of that smile again. “I was lying. When I said I didn’t know. I do know. I just thought — I thought you wouldn’t.”

“I know,” Harry said, pulling Draco to him. “But I do. I love you.”

Draco was beautiful when he smiled like that. He kept smiling, cupping Harry’s face, pulling him into a kiss. “I love you too,” he said. “I love you. I do. Even though you’re so stupid and I thought you’d ignore my note and I thought — I thought there was no way. Even though I thought you wouldn’t. I love you.”

Harry snorted and shoved at Draco, pushing him backwards, pushing him into the manor. “You’re such an idiot,” he said fondly. “It’s a good thing that you’ve got me, who doesn’t care that you’re an idiot. Who knows where you’d be otherwise.”

“Somewhere terrible, for sure,” Draco said, grabbing for Harry’s hand, pulling him along with him. He turned and stared at the large foyer of the manor, shaking his head, looking at Harry from the corner of his eye. “I don’t know what to do now,” he said shyly. 

Harry, who rarely got to see Draco shy, smiled at him. “We can figure it out,” he said, watching the light of his eyes, the way the sunlight slithered into the manor, how bright it made everything look. “We have time. Me and you have got a lot of time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's the end!!! i wanted to say thank you again to everyone who read and enjoyed this!!! i was going to wait to post it and end it on my birthday but i figured...eh, i'll bung it up a couple of days early anyway, it's not like i'm going to have much time anyway.
> 
> i left this fic alone for a good few months and only really started plugging away at again around may, when i felt like i needed a bit of hopeful relief from work and the yk state of the world! i wrestled w/ the idea of endings a lot here & when i decided on this, i thought it worked for me. hopefully it works for you! 
> 
> idk what else to say as it's been approximately 10 years since i last even posted a fanfic and i forget how this goes so!!!!


End file.
